RAINBOWS
by I love music
Summary: Thomas returns to his childhood home
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a completely different type of story for me, as I've never written about a gay character before. Please bear in mind that it's set in the early years of the 20th century when certain practices we would not tolerate today were sadly considered acceptable. **

**RAINBOWS**

**Chapter One**

Master George was right. Though, until young George Crawley, Thomas hadn't given it a moment's consideration since a boy himself, there _was_ something thrilling about listening to his footsteps scrunching in the snow. They'd all tried it, Thomas, Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold, and all were in agreement. It was _fun._

Visiting serving staff and tradesmen might raise eyebrows and think it highly irregular for a butler to take three children for a walk around the grounds (_Lady Mary remarked, with great amusement as she cuddled her new baby __daughter__, it probably wouldn't be long before there were four__)_ with only a smiling Nanny in tow, but in the cosy kindliness that was Downton Abbey it was a weekly event and thus the _status quo_.

For some reason Thomas William Barrow couldn't fathom, the children adored him. In turn, he thoroughly enjoyed their company. He never had to pretend with George, Sybbie and Marigold; they were who they were and he was who he was. He told them stories, taught them the names of birds and flowers, played with them the same games he'd played in childhood. They taught him, somewhere in between shared chatter and laughter and confidences, in between their tears, tantrums or downright mutiny, and in between his admonishments or occasional fits of pique - because none of us, child or adult, is, or ever will be, always perfect and good – to remember that the world wasn't dim and dark, but filled with colour and wonder.

But it never was. Not when Thomas was a child. It never was.

**XXXXX**

"Thomas!"

He knows by the fire in his father's roar he's in for a clout. But, then, he always is. And he knows he shouldn't keep The Monster waiting because keeping The Monster waiting means the clout will be ten times harder when it comes, but, then, he always does.

"Go on! Go on, Tommy, get it over with." Kate chivvies him along. She might have propelled him forward with a gentle push – his sister believes, and often says so, it's no use making it worse by putting off Dada when there's nowhere he can scarper, not even a mouldy old maiden Aunt's mouldy old midden - but four-year-old Ben is in her lap, and Kate has had to be Mam ever since their mother's death four years before, so she's busy scrubbing his chocolate-smeared face with a damp wash flannel she's dipping in the nearby basin. Still, she looks at him sympathetically and he knows she will be there afterwards, when Dada is busy in the shop or downing a few ales at The Coronation. Kate is always there for him. His greatest friend, his only hope of a better tomorrow.

Because there must be a brighter future somewhere, perhaps even a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and he'll buy Kate her very own cottage and Ben his very own motor car when he's a rich man.

But Dada says he'll never be a man and the only rainbows now are the spinning colours that flash on the peripheral of his vision when the heavy fisted blow rains down.

**XXXXX**

With not a little impatience, Thomas Barrow shook away the cobwebby memories that returning to the town where he was born and raised had threaded back, and, drawing the last of its nicotine into his lungs, discarded his cigarette, and turned his attention to another, and no doubt what George, Sybbie and Marigold would have regarded as more important, matter.

And, just as the children might have done, and though he was all alone (_which would not have deterred George, Sybbie or Marigold either_) and simply because he could (_George, Sybbie and Marigold would have approved_), the Downton butler brought his foot heavily down on both the cigarette stub and the large patch of ice in the gutter, watching in quiet satisfaction as cracks branched out like spider veins, kicking and heeling glittering pebbles of ice ever further (_oh, __George, Sybbie and Marigold __had __taught him well!_). Until the three Downton children re-introduced him to the tradition, it was something else he hadn't done since a boy.

The year smashing sheets of ice was a favourite past-time for Thomas and Kate.

**XXXXX**

When night crept by to freeze the earth while each was lost in the breath and arms of sleep…

...And whoever wakes first to discover its stealth rouses the other, he with seven or so machine-gun raps on his sister's bedroom door, or Kate hurrying down the narrow stairs, to the shop's back room, to the second-hand sofa covered with the familiar thin brown blanket and worn old coats, where Thomas slumbers on. Quickly dressed then, and down the cellar steps, past the tools and machinery, the ledgers and invoices, the half-finished timepieces and air of emptiness of the workshop, unbolting the heavy back door that creaks as they shoulder it open, and up nine, ten stone steps into the yard, slipping, shivering, and breath like smoke.

That harsh winter when he d just turned twelve, the pipes froze, and it was their chore, and yet not a chore, to dig and chip away at the snow, throwing satisfying chunks of ice in buckets and bowls to be thawed out for later use, laughing and jostling and teasing all the while in the shadowy early morning half light, and the only sounds the distant barking of dogs, or the zig-zag roll of a wagon taking St Martin's Mount, and, now and then, the crunching footfalls of some solitary traveller bound for his work. Then back upstairs, breathless, faces ruddy, fingers tingling in sodden gloves, to light the fire in the living-room and stab home-baked bread on the end of the toasting fork, listening to Dada and Ben beginning to stir above.

Ben is four years younger and the darling of the family; Kate is four years older and has always been his staunchest ally. She has to be. Someone has to be. Now more and more he knows he's different...and being different is sinful and wrong and the devil's work, Dada says so, and punishes him for it.

But still Thomas can't help himself. It's been that way ever since he can remember.

"_But, Tommy, you can't!"_

"_Why can't I?" _

"_Well..." Kate flounders. She's eleven, and she tries so hard to understand, but it's beyond her understanding, and he can't explain because he doesn't understand himself. "You're a boy," she says at last. "God made you a boy."_

"_Don't care about God."_

_His sister gasps. "You mustn't say such terrible things!" She looks warily around the room, as if expecting Jesus to appear. Or, more likely, The Monster. _

"_Dada says worse."_

_Kate's face crumples. She hates to be reminded __of the times __their father __staggers home drunk and curses God for taking Mam away. __He __never __drank __when Mam was alive__, __no more than a tot of rum __or tumbler or two of whiskey __at Christmas __anyway, but __now h__e __does__, __and __heavily sometimes,__though he__ should've bloody well __got over __Mam'__s__ death__ by now, like he and Kate had to. __But, __no, __B*****d __Bill Barrow's too busy wallowing in self-pity__. _

_He'll __never forgive God, __The Monster__ says, shaking his fist at Mam's Holy Picture of Jesus that still hangs __crookedly __on the __living-room __wall, and once he banged his __favourite __pipe __down __so hard on the mantelshelf __that __it clean__ broke it in two. _

_But Kate __won't hear a bad word said about Dada. She __never had reason to hate __him__ like Thomas __does__. Most she ever gets is a clip round the ear, and never severe enough to make her cry, though she does, sometimes, not in pain but in shock at the at the loss of love, and then Dada will buy her __a slab of toffee__ or a bunch of new ribbons to make it up to her. But he never says sorry to Thomas and he never needs to say sorry to Ben because Ben_ never gets smacked, not ever.

"_If Dada finds out, he'll kill you," Kate whispers, but she leaves go of the dress anyway, and goes to keep watch. _

_Heart thudding like a drum, Thomas pulls her pale blue Sunday frock on over his clothes. Being who he is feels so natural, so free, and he sashays happily about the room, and spins several times because the petticoats make it billow so wonderfully when he does, pretending he's dancing with a handsome beau, though Kate's urging him to hurry in case he's caught. But he isn't caught. _

_Not that time._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Well, not much interest being generated by this story so if it doesn't pick up I might discontinue and delete. It's also a complete departure from my usual writing style, my last few stories have been humour! :D

Thanks to dustnik for your encouraging review.

*****Chapter Two*****

He was surprised to realise he'd reached the old clockmakers already. Fittingly on such a ghost-like day, the crumbling building was empty and neglected; its signage barely recognisable now, for the shop had been reincarnated thrice, as a candle-makers, pawn shop and tailor's, since William Nathaniel Barrow relocated the business to London. But the familiar large clock bearing the name Barrow and Sons still hung outside, creaking a little in the wind, forgotten and unmourned. Although the year was unrecorded and whether by early morning or early evening was similarly unknown, Time had died quietly at a quarter past six, its hands fixed forever where last its heart beat with life and hope.

And as Thomas gazed upwards, to the long sash windows at either side of the weather-worn brown clock, all time stood still, and a young boy of twelve has yet to grow.

**XXXXX**

In winter, ice forms on the glass inside, and in summer the house is so hot they can and do ripen green tomatoes from their tomato plants on the upstairs window-sills. Today, when the sun is at its fiercest, the contrary sashes of both long windows in the large top front room have jammed and stubbornly refuse to open at all, neither up nor down, and the heat is stifling without so much as a whisper of air.

The skylight in Kate's attic bedroom will open halfway, if it's so inclined, and the windows in both Dada's and Ben's bedrooms open with no trouble at all, but their bedrooms look out on to the alleyway, and the smells from the middens and out-houses in the terraced back yards is putrid, for the coldest of winters stayed long enough to make its acquaintance with late spring before the hottest of summers arrived in a blaze of royal glory.

He's flung all the upstairs doors wide open, and the windows too, at least those that have a mind to open, and normally the large upstairs front room that serves as the Barrow family's kitchen and living quarters, since the shop greedily claims ownership of everything downstairs, draws some coolness from below, but today only the heat rises.

Sweating from his exertions, for he's lately brought up both a barrel of water, and a tub of potatoes for peeling, Thomas stops to catch his breath and idly pick out people he knows in the bustling street.

There's Harry Stancliffe with his horse and trap, the white-haired coal merchant geeing Duke along, although Thomas can't imagine why anyone would be in a hurry to light a fire on a day such as this, and Eric Soames unloading wooden crates at Jackson's grocers over the way, and Ethel Fairfield, pushing a perambulator with two small children in tow and a swollen belly again; Mrs Shepherd's boy Davy is running to the Postal Office with a brown paper parcel tucked under his arm, and Nellie Adamson, who last week called into his father's shop to purchase a new mantel clock for her employer, that ancient, wrinkled witch Miss Fox who she's pushing along in her bath-chair for her to scowl at the world and yell insults at anyone, is just…

But there's Paul! Coming out of Deakins' tobacconists with a bag of sweets and stopping in the doorway to lift his cap and fan his face. Thomas sinks to his knees to rest his arms on the window-sill and towers his fists to rest his chin.

There is a magic about him. His eyes are a merry blue and his two front teeth are crooked; Thomas knows this because he loves when Paul smiles at him. And he does. Often. He says Thomas makes him laugh with his funny stories and Thomas feels good when he makes Paul laugh. No other boy is half as much fun. Nor so beautiful. His silken fair hair is almost golden and the sun has tanned his skin nut brown. He's slim, but not skinny, and he always dresses neatly, never a button carelessly left undone or a smudge of dirt on his shirt collar. Like Thomas, and unlike many children their age, he's never barefoot, but Thomas's boots are scuffed and second-hand while Paul's shoes look brand new. They probably are.

Phyllis Baxter, Kate's friend since she started work at Jackson's, says Mr Latham left a tidy sum to his widow in his will. Although she's new to the area, Miss Baxter is pretty much in the know about what's going on in the town because she's kind and patient so people tend to tell her things. She's twenty-two, old for a shop girl, and her main work is dress-making, but she's getting married next year so saving every penny she can for her bottom drawer.

She makes everything better somehow. Bill Barrow smiles whenever he sees her and Ben is almost tolerable when Miss Baxter is about, though usually he's busy being a dirty little sneak, always running to tell tales to The Monster about him. He's nearly nine now, and Thomas had always wanted a little brother to spoil, but Ben despises him because he's different and is taking on airs and graces because their father says he, and not his eldest son, will inherit the family business. He confided in Miss Baxter he'll still buy Kate her very own cottage when he's a rich man, but he'd buy nothing for Ben, not even if he had a whole five pounds, and she saysBen might well be nicer when he grows up, he should just wait and see.

But Miss Baxter sees the best in everyone. Even Thomas. She knows his secret and keeps it; she's known ever since she brought the rag-rug she'd made to show Kate, and, like his sister, never breathed a word to anyone about how they caught him and Paul taking turns to wear the rainbow-coloured rug around their shoulders, playing at being escorted to the theatre by their sweetheart. She knows how he and Paul exchange notes and gifts and little tokens of their friendship, and says well, she's heard of such things before, and there's room for everyone in this world.

But she was wrong. It turned out there wasn't room for _everyone._


	3. Chapter 3

**dustnik** \- As my first reviewer of this fic, you made my day. Thank you so much for your comment. :)

**Manygreentrees** – Glad you liked the imagery. Years back, my brother ripened green tomatoes on the windowsills once, which is where I got the idea from! It was so funny seeing them there… :D

**Anna Bates Fan **– It wasn't just too few reviews, it was also that nobody had Followed or Favourited, so, even though many people read it, apart from dustnik's review, I couldn't tell whether anybody actually enjoyed reading it. Love Anna, she is my favourite character after Thomas, the children and Phyllis Baxter.

**Guest** – I love writing about children so Thomas's childhood intrigues me.

*****Chapter Three*****

Despite his thick overcoat, an icy shiver ran down his spine and Thomas Barrow suddenly remembered how cold he was and how sharply that bitter wind so cruelly stung his eyes. The smell of food had been assailing his nostrils for some time, causing his stomach to growl in acknowledgement, while the red glow of the brazier on the opposite side of the cobble-stoned road beckoned fair welcome to friend and stranger alike with the promising warmth of its small red fire. His senses captured, his purchase made, a few pleasantries exchanged with the hot potato seller, and his body warmed and hunger sated, he thought to move on, to return to Downton and his duties, for the matter which brought him back to the streets of his childhood was concluded now, and there was nothing more to keep him here.

But I've heard tell of how some folk believe rainbows are filled with hopes and dreams and yesterdays. Perhaps that was why his aching heart called on him to look back again.

**XXXXX**

Grinning, Paul Latham stops using the cap to fan his face and begins waving it frantically at his best friend, whom he had already espied at the window and thought to tease by feigning ignorance of his presence. Catching the joke, Thomas waves back with equal fervour and equally wide grin. If it wasn't for the fact his father is in the shop below and bound to see, or at least hear, his exit, he would run downstairs immediately. But if The Monster happens to glance out of the plate glass window – indeed, he may already have done so! - and sees his friend and Thomas together their well guarded secret would blow open and be secret no longer. How little now the stupid, obnoxious little man suspects and how much fun it is to flirt with danger as well as each other! Oh, they are far too smart for a dullard like William Nathaniel Barrow and outwit him at every turn!

Paul will have a glib story to hand should The Monster be curious enough to ask the reason for his waving the cap – chasing away a wasp, he'll say, or perhaps an innocent "Why, I was waving to you, Mr Barrow!" - or perhaps even, he thought the would try fanning his head from above, which he'd heard as being the new, fashionable way to cool down (_Thomas snickers to himself at his own unfettered imagination; he really must share that wonderfully wild suggestion with his friend)_. But never for a moment will his father dream that, in the seemingly innocuous act of waving his cap, Paul has sent a message to his sweetheart, for only they know that the three clockwise circles he turned too is their signal for I Love You.

Paul, as he needs must in order to avoid arousing the suspicion they have so carefully circumnavigated, returns a final wave before he reluctantly departs, and Thomas despondently slides further down by the windowsill, sinking his chin on his folded arms. If only they could spend as much time as they wished with each other. The world feels so perfect when they are together and so dull and empty when they are apart. They share so many interests and always have so much to talk about, but even when they are silent the language of love is still in their eyes. Thomas smiles wistfully. He had read the latter phrase in a poetry book Miss Baxter lent to Kate.

He'd stumbled upon _A Ladies' Book of Romantic Verse_ while hunting for his and Paul's latest issue of _Comic Cuts_ that Kate, who claimed she'd never read such nonsense in a thousand years, and totally unaware that he knew she regularly borrowed to read, had borrowed yet again, and he had flicked through its pages of love poems, planning to quote a few lines to tease her about Fred Lacey, the handsome, tousle-haired lamp-lighter because, to Thomas's great amusement, she blushes whenever she sees him.

But instead a certain poem about forbidden love captured his attention. Although it concerned a lady and a gentleman, and their thwarted romance was not due to their being of the same gender, but due to their being from different social classes, it struck Thomas how alike their situation was to their own. How others tried to tell them their love was wrong, how they smiled and waved from afar, how they loved so deeply and so truly. And so, forgetting all about his plans to tease his older sister, he painstakingly copied every word in his very best flowing handwriting with the stub of a pencil he'd found in the workshop, artistically signing his name and an arrowed heart at the end of the page. The poem is still in his pocket, folded neatly, ready to give to Paul, for, like the star-crossed couple, the two boys often exchange tokens of their love to keep under their pillows, in the hope they might dream of the other. Because they, too, love so deeply and so truly.

They had loved from the moment they met.

And it's six months now since the winter's day when Helen Latham and her son first entered his father's shop, shortly after Mrs Latham, deciding they needed a more central and smaller home than their previous, had rented rooms in nearby Newton Street.

**XXXXX**

She has a family heirloom carriage clock in need of mending, she declares, producing said item, and looking Thomas critically up and down, obviously thinking he is far too young to be the William Nathaniel Barrow, Clockmaker, as stated on the sign above the door, who claims to make, sell and repair all manner of clocks, and further claims Barrow Clockmakers and Sons to have been Established 1785.

Ben runs to inform Dada of a customer, and as Mrs Latham accepts the chair and shop catalogue that Thomas politely proffers. Paul gapes in wide-eyed wonder at the steadfastly ticking timepieces of every shape, size and age, two or three of which have been the property of the Barrow family since the shop opened, and others that have been on display for several years.

"I'm sure I never saw so many clocks!" He says in breathless awe. "Do you know how they all work?"

Thomas puffs with pride. "Ho! It would be a poor show if I didn't! Here, let me show you how well I mind old Millie – that's what I call her, you know, Millie being a grandmother clock and the very oldest here. It would be a fine how-d'ye-do now, if we named every clock we kept, wouldn't it?" he adds, an odd flutter of pleasure stirring in his heart at the other boy's appreciative laughter. It was, indeed, Thomas's daily chore to wind every clock on the premises, and very skilful he is at it too, as he quickly proves to his new friend, dexterously adjusting the intricate dials behind its case.

"Let me try!" Paul pleads, but as he is an inch or so shorter despite being exactly the same age – they learn this much in between snorts of laughter over Paul's inability to reach the top dial - Thomas lays his hand on the other boy's to guide him, his breath tickling Paul's neck and making him giggle, and both almost tumbling over.

"Paul, for Heaven's sake…!" His mother begins in mild exasperation, deciding their childish antics have gone on long enough, and she made as if she would stand to remove him from his companion.

But then The Monster appears, smoothing back his rumpled hair and hastily fastening his waistcoat, for it is Mr Barrow's custom and personal treat on Friday afternoons to leave his sons to mind the shop while he takes a late, and often liquid, lunch followed by a short nap.

"Good afternoon, Madam, I am so…"

Then he espies the two boys, both laughing heartily, holding on to each other lest they fall, scuffling in an exaggerated semi-dance as if they hope to. In three short strides he reaches them and drags Thomas back by his collar to shake him like a rag doll, his eyes bulging, his face red with rage, a growl rumbling in his throat, so great is his anger.

Then, recollecting there are others present, William Barrow abruptly lets go of his son and seeks to backtrack, for both Mrs Latham and Paul are staring at him in stunned silence.

Paul's mouth forms a round O of astonishment while Mrs Latham, too, is taken aback by the ferocity of the shaking. They are a handful of years into a brand new century, and there is a slowly growing opinion gathering pace that in these more modern times children should be treated more kindly than they have been in previous generations. But many others say spare the road and spoil the child, and it is not her place to interfere in how a man raises his family, so she uncomfortably looks away.

Thomas knows the reprieve is only temporary and he's for it, even without Ben's satisfied smirk to remind him. He knows this as surely as he knows the sun rises in the morning and the moon shines by night. But he gives no indication of anxiety. His mask of indifference has always been both his defence and his downfall, and often he will set sail on stormy waters without captain or compass.

As he does now.

Into the heavy silence, emphasised by the loudly ticking clocks, the mechanical cuckoo suddenly swings out from the ornate Swiss clock to proclaim the hour.

And Thomas can't help himself. He sniggers. Catching his eye, Paul joins in soon afterwards, until their laughter rings merrily around the shop once more. Mrs Latham smiles and the portly clockmaker returns the smile.

"Boys will be boys!" William Barrow remarks pleasantly to the young widow, with a sigh and shake of his grey-peppered head in the manner of a doting father, and his clenched fist hidden.

**XXXXX**

Dear Lord, that night Thomas received the beating to end all beatings. Kate wasn't home until late, having spent the afternoon and evening with Miss Baxter, who is apparently a fine needlewoman, helping her sew sequins on a ballgown for a wealthy lady. She jumped in shock when she cut through the yard, where small snowflakes fluttered like angel feathers in the chill wind of winter, and in the light of the gas-lamp saw the silhouette of her brother, bloodied, bruised and only half alive, huddled in the outside lavatory.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to **ptbaym10** for adding this story to your Alerts

**A/N:** Sorry this fic is taking so long to be updated. My laptop is on its last legs so in constant need of recharging and it'll be a while yet before I can afford a new one.

*****Chapter Four*****

As if in fury with the world, the wind gained a terrible strength, grasping snowflakes to fist them down over the lonely earth ever faster, ever wilder, every angry throw more bitter than the last. Amid the swirling blizzard and river-flowing crowds, a few of the shopkeepers resignedly hooked poles in canopies and pulled shutters down over windows proudly displaying their wares. Snow muffled sounds as colours faded to grey; the faint streaks of light from gas-lamps shining coldly into the whispering black of night and dancing across tainted white snow.

Another anonymous face among the many, Thomas Barrow stepped into the shelter of the clockmakers doorway, struck a match against its long-silent door and cupped his hands around its wavering yellow flame to light another cigarette, watching dispassionately as seemingly all humankind passed him by, the rich, the poor, the beggars, the thieves, the young and the old, the fortunate and the downtrodden, the drunk and the sober, each with their own joys and cares, none sparing him a second glance. They might have been plucked from any town, any city, their little lives rounded with a sleep, and yet so meaningful to each.

Years had flown by like leaves in the wind since William Barrow relocated the business to London. Drawn by the rumours wealthy Londoners were tiring of identical factory-churned clocks and yearned nostalgically for the ornate hand-crafted clocks Manchester folk could ill afford, he had upped sticks and made for those mythical streets paved with gold. But for Thomas once long ago it seemed every day would be painted in golden hues.

**XXXXX**

The rain is long gone, its puddles dried away by the marriage of the gentle sun and cooling breath of the breeze, and in complete contrast to the smoky city below, in the azure skies above large scudding clouds are playing chase.

Charmed by the quiet contentment of the day, every now and then Thomas's attention is captured by the rush of wings and he pauses from his task of chopping wood in the backyard to admire the graceful soaring flight of birds, thinking how wonderful it would be to have such freedom. He laughs inwardly at his musings. Surely he never used to be so sentimental? But things have changed since Paul Latham and he sees everything with new eyes. Colours are brighter, music brings a greater harmony to his soul, and even knowing The Monster hates him more and more barely causes him a moment's concern. But sunshine will always cast its shadows and with the death of the rain so, too,the rainbow is no more.

It had greeted him like a friend's smile in the grey of early morning while raindrops were pattering mournfully down on the rooftops,and as he gazed and gazed at its watery colours blending into one, he wondered if Paul was gazing at the same rainbow.

Because it's so easy to slip into thoughts of his friend and to lose himself in daydreams when he already occupies so much of his heart.

He squints up at a cloud that resembles a bearded man's angry face before it breaks and shift shapes into a poodle that floats leisurely through the heavens. Making pictures from clouds is one of their favourite pastimes. They like to find somewhere quiet and alone where for a short while they can sit cosily together, Paul's head resting on his chest, Thomas's arm wrapped around his sweetheart's shoulders, arguing companionably over what they thought the shapes resembled,never happier than when they can share precious moments.

Last time, in the middle of guffawing over Paul's assertion a certain cloud _"definitely looked like a three-legged cat wearing a monocle and bowler hat and smoking a_ _cigar"_ they had caught each other's eyes and he was sure Paul's heart was thrumming as fast as his own as they hesitantly tilted their heads towards each other...But suddenly it all seemed too soon, too new, too uncertain, and each boy backed away, laughing in embarrassment, before their lips could brush.

They have yet to speak of it. But they both know their friendship has reached a different, and somehow higher, level.

And, pondering on this and the sheer magic and beauty of the world, Thomas, having far more interesting things to think about, is paying scant heed to the murmur of conversation floating outdoors. Until Kate's voice rises.

_"Dada, it must stop!"_

It wasn't in Kate's nature to be angry. It wasn't even in Kate's nature to shout. No matter what the situation, even the time the family had been rudely woken by a horse and cart crashing into the shop front, she could be relied on to stay calm. But, then, there could be several reasons for the disagreement.

For one, she was always trying to persuade their father to give up, or at least cut down on, his drinking- although, in Thomas's opinion, they'd all be much happier if The Monster drank himself to death. Or perhaps she was insisting again that Dada was making himself ill with overwork. She had worriedly shown her brother another advertisement in last Saturday's _Evening Echo_ for _"inexpensive quality clocks for the discerning buyer"_. Because of factories mass producing cheap clocks and losing traditional clockmakers custom, William Barrow had also begun a clock repair service some years earlier, but, as Ben was still too young to learn much of the trade, Kate was fully occupied keeping house, and his father disowned Thomas and his _"unnatural desires"_, refusing to teach him anything more about the craft, all the work fell on his own shoulders. Well, serve him right. He can dig himself into an early grave as far as his eldest son is concerned.

But most likely it's the Mrs Latham business again. There is a spark, something, between the middle-aged shopkeeper and the young widow - at least on their father's side. Once or twice a week Helen Latham might pass by, and if the clockmakers happens to be empty of customers, William Barrow, espying her through the plate glass window, will immediately step outside so enquire after her health or to omplain about the weather or on the pretext of wishing to discuss some item in the news.

The Barrow children have differing views on their middle-aged father's fledgling would-be romance. Ben, who doesn't remember their mother at all, having made her acquaintance on this Earth for just an hour before she took it upon herself to depart from it, is indifferent. Kate hates the very idea of her father being with anyone but Mam. Even though Miss Baxter tells her over and over it's harmless flirting that does wonders for both their egos, and nothing will ever come of it, she mutters darkly about how _"The Black Widow's"_ money is no doubt running out _"so she's set her silly flowered hat on her silly empty head at Dada"_ (which was not only rather unfair but also grossly inaccurate, as Mrs Latham gave him no encouragement whatsoever, and, unlike the young widow, Bill Barrow actually owned a cap to set at someone). Oddly enough, Thomas, however, is delighted with the _status quo. _ Sometimes Paul will be with his mother to help her carry her shopping, and whenever he is, they will always manage to steal a glance or share a smile while their parents remain oblivious.

Thomas and Paul are fast friends now, but only Kate and Miss Baxter even know that they are. Mrs Latham has no idea of their trysts and his father truly believes he's _"beating the perverted nature out of him"._ Ha! No, Thomas has just learnt to be more devious and his father is a dim-witted fool.

Having more interesting matters on his mind, believing the disagreement to be over something trivial, he is about to gather up the chopped wood when Kate's next comment stops him in his tracks.

_"Please! Please, Dada, please you must stop thrashing Tommy!"_

_"Hold your tongue, lass! A man may discipline his own children in his own home how he sees fit and I will not be told what to do by a mere chit of a girl!" _

_"But, Dada,Tommy can't help the way he..."_

_"Enough!" _

A surge of anger runs through him. All kids get clouted, it would be a wonder if they didn't, and being so used to it after all these years he has never thought to defend himself before, or been tall enough and strong enough to do so, but if The Monster dares raise his hand to Kate...

But William Barrow can never be angry with his only daughter for very long and he speaks in conciliatory tones. "Catherine, Catherine, you're only sixteen. You know nothing yet of the world. Your brother's ways fly in the face of God and Nature and he must be protected from himself."

Kate's voice lowers too and they must have declared a truce, for the conversation drifts back into its previous unintelligible murmur. Deciding he, too, can relax, Thomas slips into the back alley to smoke a cigarette from the packet Paul bought for him from the regular pocket money he receives, leaving the backyard door off the latch in order to sneak back inside if his father comes unexpectedly outside and discovers him smoking and idling. He has barely inhaled, however, when he hears someone approaching, and, coughing, he irritably stamps out the unfinished cigarette and hastens back.


	5. Chapter 5

*****Chapter 5*****

But it's Kate who comes out into the yard, to throw a shovelful of soot into the dustbin, and she's sniffling still, head bent, her thick dark hair falling like a curtain over her face. Deep in thought, she looks up, startled, when her brother calls her name, dropping both shovel and dustbin lid, which clang metallically as they hit the flagstones, causing grey clouds of dust to fly upwards.

"Silly Sis," he says fondly, using the pet name he's always had for Kate, emptying the shovel of the remains of its contents and slotting the dustbin lid back into place, his heart lurching at the sight of her swollen red eyes. She's the only one who has ever cried for him. And she doesn't need to, she doesn't, he's learnt long ago to build a wall of indifference around himself.

"Tom, Tom the clockmaker's son, stole a clock and away he run," she teases back, with a rhyme she used to taunt him with back in the days when Mam was still alive and they were arch enemies by mutual consent because nothing other than heated squabbles over toys and games troubled their knee-high view of the world when they were very young, and a sympathetic tear rolls down her cheek despite her smile and her poor pretence of being angry at having to dust the soot from her apron.

"Don't be daft, Silly Sis Kate," he says gently, playfully tugging one of her plaits. "All kids get smacked now and then. No use us whinging over it, is there?"

"But it's not just now and then, Tommy!" She flicks her hair out of his grasp, folding her arms to brook no argument and raises her chin defiantly. "And it's not just a smack like other kids get, it's getting worse and worse. I love Dada, I do, but when he's drunk I'm scared he's going to...(_she swallows a sob_) Ben never gets clouted, you know it."

Thomas shrugs with the false bravado he's perfected over the years. Of course he knows it. He's known ever since Dada caught him playing with Kate's doll, that his younger brother is William Barrow's favourite. It had been, at the time, no more than mere curiosity; he was as likely to play with Kate's dolls as he was to play with the wooden train set an eccentric elderly customer had found in his attic and solemnly presented to Thomas, together with a neatly folded copy of The Times and an ounce of tobacco, as a birthday gift upon hearing it would be his sixth birthday in four months' time (_and which The Monster later declared to be Ben's_), he was as likely to try on Kate's Sunday bonnet and gloves – as he did one happy Sunday afternoon - as he was to wear his own shirt and trousers. He never could understand why there has to be dividing lines between boys and girls when he has always felt he is somewhere in between. And his father must have somehow sensed that Thomas had always known he was different, had always felt he was on the outside looking in, because that was the very first time he struck him. Not too hard back then, though hard enough to leave both sting and mark, but the blows have become much more severe with the passage of time especially, like Kate says, when he's three sheets to the wind. As have the insults. Because when he was only five or six, he didn't understand what words like deviant and queer meant even when preceded by a colourful expletive.

Still, he can't be too unhappy. The sun is out, a morning rainbow smiled down, and he and Paul have arranged to meet at their special place near the canal. He sneezes once or twice as he consoles his older sister with a hug, and as she always does, Kate fusses, chiding him that he needs to take more care of himself or he'll never shake off that summer cold, and where on earth is his hanky?

He laughs at her, at the very idea a working class lad of thirteen would even contemplate carrying a cotton handkerchief like some toff, at her fretting and fussing over him like a mother hen albeit loving her all the more for it, teases her that's what sleeves are for while making a great show of wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve, then teases her a little more over being sweet on Fred Lacey, till she blushes and laughs and slaps his arm affectionately, reminding him to take the zig-zag route down Victoria Crescent, along Brougham Way and cutting through "the little prince streets" (_so nicknamed due to their being named after Queen Victoria's sons_) via Hunters Lane and Parker Way, lest the other boys follow them again. It's happened twice already that they've been ambushed, and while Paul's mother naively believes her son's cuts and bruises to be no more than the usual rough and tumble fights, sighing _"boys will be boys"_ as she tends to his injuries, Thomas thinks by the glint in his father's eyes when he arrives home bleeding he would gladly pay them sixpence apiece to beat him again, although, convinced he's seen an end to their friendship, he little suspects Paul is different too

He gives his sister a quick peck on the cheek as they part, she in better spirits now, to prepare the family's evening meal, Thomas to finish his work before running his allocated errands and spend time with Paul. She worries too much about him. His throat is sore, but it has been since yesterday and a summer cold is soon gone.

He thinks no more of the sneezes.

**XXXXX**

They take the quieter part of the tow-path, over the old humpback bridge to the farmer's field, and away from the hustle and bustle of the men working on the barges. The shouting of boatmen, the crash of boxes and barrels being unloaded, the clip-clop of hooves and snorts and whinnies of the cart horses, all fades into the distance as the music of birdsong plays just for them, the sun sparkles merrily on the water below, and free at last from prying eyes, with shy smiles, they hesitantly reach for, and then firmly clasp, each other's hand. They know they have little time to spare together, and yet still they stroll, lost in each other and talking of inconsequential matters, how they both could, or so they claim, live forever on nothing but hot buttered toast, how cosy the patter of rain sounds when one is abed, whether the chicken or egg came first, if a man could, should and ever, ever would land on the moon, or even travel into outer space, all is pondered and debated with due gravity or much levity, as if all the time in the world is theirs to spare.

The summer cold has made Thomas's voice hoarse, and Paul laughs teasingly whenever he speaks, or tries to, until his friend stoops to snatch a handful of damp grass to throw over him. Squealing with laughter, dusting the grass from his golden hair and neatly buttoned jacket, Paul runs on ahead, seizing his chance, when far enough away, to throw grass and soil back at his companion in return, and thus the play-fight ensues with much laughter until Thomas stops at last to catch a breath.

"This bloody cold, gone and knocked the bloody stuffing out of me," he wheezes, and scowls as they hear the University clock from in the cenre of the town chiming the hour. "Clocks!" he growls. "Don't you just hate the people who make 'em? Like that b*****d Bill Barrow?"

"He didn't make the University clock, did he?" Paul gasps in awe.

Thomas laughs hoarsely. They are the same age – in fact, his friend is two months older – but, being taller and more of, as he considers himself, a man of the world than Paul, who, unlike Thomas, is much cherished and cossetted by his only parent, he often feels older. Especially now his father has pulled him out of school with the excuse he was starting his son on an apprenticeship (_ha!)_ while Paul still drags himself reluctantly through the imposing gates of _St Martin's Boys_ every weekday morning, to have his knuckles rapped for the smallest of transgressions and his left hand tied behind his back to _"defy the devil" _although his right-hand penmanship remains as yet a spidery scrawl.

"'Course he didn't, you ninny! As if they'd have asked that stupid pie-eyed b*****d to make University clock! Anyroad, it's the old lunatic asylum building, they'd have had to keep him in." A sudden bout bout of coughing, as he laughs at his own wit, steals his voice and he speaks the last few words barely above a whisper.

"Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock," Paul croaks teasingly, doubling back on his tracks to tap his sweetheart's neck in time to each syllable, but it's only half an effort to croak; he thinks he night have caught Thomas's cold, he says, blowing his nose, to Thomas's amusement (_and not a little envy; while he'd given short shrift to Kate's suggestion because working class lads don't, as a rule, carry such pretentious accessories, it would be nice if he could_) on a startlingly clean white handkerchief, doubtless tucked into his pocket by his over-protective Mama.

And, loath as they are to part, it's probably best they head back home, they agree, as they fling themselves on the ground, using the bridge as a back rest to sit for a short while.

"Couple of old crocks, ain't we, Tom?" Paul sighs.

"Couple of old clocks, more like." Thomas replies, and Paul shakes his head in mock despair at his companion's poor joke and smiles his magic smile. A magic that somehow creeps into the air. A magic that wakes and breathes and waits.

That knows.

Because the question in Paul's eyes is surely mirrored in Thomas's own. And it is Paul who answers first, leaning in towards him, as their arms fold instinctively around each other, their lips meeting in song unknown to dance together in perfect harmony.

Their kiss is as chaste and innocent as their first, and yet this kiss is no snatched, uncertain kiss to be half regretted, half wondered at in idle moment. It has a beauty all of its own and claims it with silent promises of forever. It lasts. Even after it ends, it lasts. It leaves its taste, its smile, its touch, its memories and its dreams. Its memories and its dreams. Always.

Thomas smiles and returns their secret wave as Paul pauses briefly atop the hill to turn his cap in three clockwise circles. And then, being already late, they part company to avoid suspicion and he runs speedily towards the town without another backward glance.

Little dreaming he would never see his friend again.


	6. Chapter 6

Many thanks to **Princess Annabell** for adding this fic to your Favourites

*****chapter 6*****

Dark clouds have begun to crowd the skies and a chill crept into the air, causing him to shiver, but a smile tugs at the corners of Thomas's mouth when he sees the shop already has its shutters pulled down. The Monster has begun adding Saturday night to his Friday afternoon drinking sessions and it seems he's made an early start. Could this day get any better? He whistles the tune of a song he heard blaring out from the rowdy music hall he passed by last week as he climbs in through the small side window that Kate, as promised, has left off the latch for him to sneak inside, offering up a vague thanks to some unknown deity that it's not sticking and obligingly slides open. His father will have noticed his absence when he locked up, but he'll worry about the consequences later. Stupid b*****d'll probably be too sozzled to aim his fist straight anyroad.

He drops the few feet to the floor and is startled when his sister comes thundering down the narrow staircase as though fleeing the hounds of hell, her face tear-streaked and her thick raven-coloured hair, inherited from their Irish grandmother, so Dada says, flying about her shoulders like a shawl, a small towel or wash-cloth or sponge, something white, crumpled in her fist; stupid, stupid way to come downstairs, barely touching the banister like that, he thinks; she'll break her bloody neck! And so she almost does, missing the next to bottom step, stumbling and tumbling and falling so heavily against Thomas's chest that it winds him for several painful moments.

"Tommy, it's Ben!" She cries urgently.

And then they both thunder up the narrow staircase at breakneck speed, to his little brother's room, Kate to immediately re-take her prior position, kneeling by Ben's bed, dabbing the white cloth on his forehead, Thomas arriving a split second later. Only to come to a sudden halt in the doorway. Now that he's here...What? How did he, or Kate, for that matter, imagine Thomas being here would help?

He knew Ben had been sick for the last couple of days - it had even fleetingly crossed his mind, until he learnt the real cause, the reason for the argument between Kate and their father earlier that day was because William Barrow thought Kate wasn't looking after her little brother well enough – but his mind and heart were full of Paul and the thought quickly passed on by. Until now, Ben being ill had been so concern of Thomas's. They didn't like each other. At least, Thomas hadn't liked Ben ever since he was bribed with a quarter of pear drops and a farthing to tell a gaggle of lads where Thomas and Paul were hiding out, knowing full well they were going to beat them up for being different; he couldn't remember exactly when Ben first began disliking him. But they had been friends before they were enemies...They had laughed fit to burst in this very room, its silence broken now only by Ben's rasping, heaving breaths, that late evening when they were four and eight and he showed his little brother how best to kill the dozens of bugs that would crawl out of the cracks in the walls when darkness fell. Like Kate and their father, there had been a time when Thomas, too, spoilt him rotten, treating him to extra sweets, giving him piggy back rides, playing kickabout in the back yard.

He takes two or three hesitant steps inside the room, shocked to realise, despite everything, despite all their fights, all the times Ben has betrayed him, goaded him, twisted the truth when it suited, he still cares.

And he's scared. So scared.

The little boy's gaze is far, far away and his face and neck have oddly ballooned, putting Thomas in mind of Mad Lizzie MacMillan, who is often to be seen waddling about the town, red-faced and puffing and stopping to catch her breath every few yards, shaking her fist ineffectually at the kids who follow calling her names.

There's a smell of freshly-laundered sheets, a colourful posy in a vase on the window-sill, and in spite of the rain the window's opened a crack to let in some air – all Kate's handiwork, no doubt – but Ben's just lying there, rasping and panting like an old, old man, the sunshine yellow eiderdown, that Thomas vaguely remembers Mam telling him once was a wedding present, far too big for the small bed and dangling on the floor, and he looks so very, very tiny and helpless, even in that small bed, propped up on a pristine white pillow.

"Dada's gone to fetch Dr Swales," Kate says softly, without turning around, and she might have been talking to either of her brothers. "He said I wouldn't be able to run fast enough and he...Hush. Hush now," she adds tearfully, smoothing his forehead, as Ben whimpers in some fitful half dream.

Thomas's mouth is dry as dust and his heart racing. Doctors cost a fortune, he's heard they sometimes charge as much as half-a-crown, and shopkeepers don't make a fortune, not even those who aren't constantly drinking away any profit. The cash flow has got so bad lately that William Barrow has been talking about moving the business to London, where it's rumoured there's a fashion for the old style custom-made clocks again, and Kate says there's less money than there used to be to buy in the groceries, which is why she's asked Miss Baxter to teach her more about dress-making. Ben might be their father's favourite, but only the very, very wealthy send for a doctor; the poor never do unless…

"Why is his face all swelled up like that?" He hears the catch in his voice. "Why is his neck like a…like a...?" He searches for a comparison. Like a bull's is the only simile that comes to mind. But it sounds like an insult and he doesn't want to insult Ben, it's not right, not here in a sick room, where his little brother is…

...Dying...

"I don't know," Kate murmurs, and his sister's voice is wavering too.

"But it's tonsillitis! He gets tonsillitis all the time and you said it was tonsillitis again!" He's clutching at straws, but he doesn't know how else to make everything all right. And Kate, she's scared and uncertain, which makes Thomas scared and uncertain too because Kate is always so calm and strong, and now, when he needs her most, she isn't.

"Don't you dare shout at _me_, Thomas Barrow! I thought it _was_ tonsillitis and now _I don't know_ because I'm _NOT _a doctor and I'm the one who has to look after Ben all the time while you just go off whenever it suits you, and I'm_ tired! _ I'm really, really _tired!" _ She glares at him in fury, and as he sees her flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes before she buries her face in the sunshine yellow eiderdown, weeping softly, he remembers with a pang of guilt that Kate hasn't been well either. She'd told him off only two or three days ago for not using a hanky before she'd had to tell him off again today, and said then she thought she'd caught his summer cold, but normally Kate throws off coughs and colds and sore throats as easily as Thomas does; neither of them has ever been a weakling like Ben. Mrs Roberts from Mason Street, who'll deliver your child for as little as a quarter of tea (two ounces it it doesn't survive) proudly boasts to the other women as they stand gossiping on their donkey-stoned steps and smoke their pipes, he's the tiniest baby she ever delivered in twenty years. And Ben's still much smaller and skinnier than other boys his age, which makes everyone spoil him.

And he still doesn't know what to do when Kate is so lost. He's no use in a sick room, perhaps he's no use to anyone like The Monster often says, and even when he hears their voices and footsteps on the stairs, even when the door opens and his father and Dr Swales enter, bringing in the breeze and his father's palpable hatred, he stays where he is, unable to move, as though some sorcerer has happened by and thrown a spell to glue his feet to the floor.

"No children. Go, go!" Dr Arnold Swales dismisses Thomas with an arrogant wave of his hand, removing his rain-glistening hat and cloak to throw over the small wooden chair lately brought from the kitchen, and impatiently signals for Kate to move out of his way. The peremptory order, although it makes him bristle with anger, for at thirteen Thomas considers himself to be a man, propels him into action, at least; the sarcastic comment his patient is actually a child, has the doctor not noticed? remains locked on his tongue only in deference to Ben, and with no more than a scathing glance which he would come to perfect in later years, he leaves, barely restraining himself, again for Ben's sake, from childishly slamming the door, catching a last glimpse of the physician snapping open the bag he has deposited on the night-stand and pulling out a stethoscope.

The day has changed beyond all recognition. A darkness has fallen and heavy raindrops are drumming against the small landing window as if they would demand entrance. With shoulders hunched, he leans over the banister rails, staring down into the depths of silent shadows hidden in the twists and turns of the narrow stairwell. How long he stands there, listening to the rattle of the rain and the subdued conversation and movement from within the sick room, he cannot tell. A few minutes, an hour or more. Ironically, time is irrelevant here in this building filled with machines created to steadfastly count down every second of life

Thomas is breathing rapidly now. His throat is raw and his eyes sting, and he could blame his cold, but this feeling is different. He's had colds often enough before to know. And then he realises what the unfamiliar sensation is: he is going to cry!

But he hasn't cried for years! He'd never give his father the satisfaction, never wanted to worry Kate, never thought Ben's betrayals worthy of tears. He'd thought his heart was made of steel, but it snaps as easily as if made of twigs.

The door behind him clicks gently open and shut and Kate slips quietly to his side.

"Dr Swales says it's diphtheria, Tom," his sister says with sad resignation. She isn't crying now. She's all done. Because she has to be. For Death comes regularly to knock on the homes of the poor and Death has no compunction. Not six months before it came for Molly Hammond's husband and three children; only weeks ago Joe Wilcox was taken. And older folk shake their heads when they talk of the terrible outbreak of diphtheria that killed and maimed so many in the town years before he or Kate were even born.

There is still no cure.

"He might get better yet." She squeezes her brother's shoulder, again the strong, sensible Kate he can lean on.

"He might,"Thomas whispers in return. They both know it's unlikely.

"The doctor asked for more water," Kate adds, looking down at the empty bowl she carries.

He watches as she joins the shadows on the stairs and it's hard to tell whether he or the rain is shedding the most tears.

**A/N: ** I was intrigued to learn that in the early part of the twentieth century it was fairly common for women to smoke pipes so thought I would include it. Apparently, it was also common then for women to scrub their doorsteps with a specially made stone called a donkey stone. Research is...interesting!


	7. Chapter 7

****A/N: ****Many thanks to **Shelby Gammon1** for adding me to author alert and favourite authors, flattered! :)

So many people read this story :))) So few comment. :(((

*******chapter 7*******

It's four days since Ben's funeral. The shop remains shut; a notice on its door proclaiming in clipped tones _"Closed until further notice – family bereavement". _Yet, even with its shutters pulled firmly down over its display window and thick black sheets dug out of a trunk in the attic cloaking all the rest, even with last night's rain dripping monotonously down from the drain-pipe and flowing miserably into the gutter, still the shop manages to cast an imposing presence on the bustling high street that causes many a passer-by to gaze at it in awe and the more religious among them to bless themselves, some perhaps out of respect for the dead, others perhaps to superstitiously insure themselves against illness with the Lord's protection.

Within its walls, silent to the outside world, its world inside marked by the relentless ticking of dozens of timepieces, the Barrows have settled into a new routine.

In the cellar workroom, William Barrow makes half-hearted attempts to catch up on a backlog of clocks awaiting repair. Perhaps his customers wish to give him time to grieve for his youngest son or perhaps they simply wish to avoid a house of disease, whatever their reasons, it is fortunate none have yet become impatient, for his work is punctuated now by frequent pauses to stare at nothing. He is inevitably to be found doing so whenever she takes him a mug of tea, Kate tells Thomas. And on the rare occasions he is not, she adds, he's pouring himself a tot of brandy or whiskey, and rarely does the whirring and hum of machinery greet her ears.

With no income from the clockmaker's to buy food, he and Kate must seek work. It's a futile exercise. The two wealthy young sisters Kate was purposely introduced to by Miss Baxter, their occasional seamstress, having previously admired the beautiful needlework her mentor taught her apprentice, and keen to have her embroider patterns on their new hats, have cancelled the appointment, afraid she will bring diphtheria with her.

The poor cannot afford such niceties. Death is no stranger to their hovels; sometimes, with too many mouths to feed, it comes as both a heartbreak and a blessing. Many would gladly employ Kate in an instant – if only they had the means and money to do so. But not Thomas. He is fast, strong and has a sharp mind, and boys are often needed to lift and carry goods, but his _"unnatural nature"_ is becoming more well known now he's older and often he's lucky to escape being beaten for even asking.

Yesterday, while browsing through the market stalls, pilfering an apple here and a handful of carrots there, a portly businessman, overhearing his vain requests, approached him in secret and promised Thomas a handsome sum and _"work aplenty"_ if he would meet him at his _"office"_ at noon. He swore under his breath, sorely tempted to punch the nose from his leering face except it would attract the attention of the stall holders, perhaps even the rozzers*, and a working class lad, already known to be _"perverted",_ not a well-dressed toff, would be the one to be hauled up before the beak.

He feels sullied by the encounter. The love he and Paul share is surely no different to the love of any boy and girl? And yet their love is considered shameful while a boy and a girl are free to love. Kate still blushes whenever she passes Fred Lacey even though he's broken her heart by courting Alice Corbett and folk sigh sympathetically at unrequited love; Miss Baxter's eyes are bright with happiness when she talks, as she often does, of the man she is to marry; gentlemen may send flowers to ladies; the very young boys and girls play kiss-chase around sun-starved courts and filthy alleyways, and even the most cynical say it gladdens their heart. But Thomas and Paul are dirty, tainted, their love sordid. _Why_ is it so wrong?

He clenches his fist angrily, peering restlessly through a small hole in the black sheet at the window, and Kate asks what's troubling him. He thinks of confiding in his sister about the ugly proposition, but only shakes his head and lies that all is fine, he's just missing Paul. Which is a half-truth because he does miss Paul, terribly, and aches for his company. But since their tryst by the canal, and unlike Thomas, who has begun to feel better, he has been quite ill and confined to bed so there has been no possibility of seeing each other. Anyroad, he knows what happened yesterday happens to girls all the time and he won't burden Kate with more worries when she is still unwell and she does so much.

Kate is the glue holding the splintered family together. Even with so little money for food and fuel, she manages to make do. She toasts three thin slices of home-baked bread by the small fire Thomas lights with their last few pieces of coal and adds home-made jam to turn the paltry breakfast into a feast; she serves three thickly cut slices of bread and dripping and their home-grown tomatoes for their lunch; her shawl pulled over her face to hide her shame at doing so, she shopped the night after Ben's funeral, jostling with the very poorest, to buy cheap scraps of meat that the butcher might otherwise have tossed to scrawny street dogs to fight over, in order to make them an evening meal.

It is this three-day old stew, padded out with potato and potato peelings, shredded cabbage leaves, and the stolen carrots, that she calls her brother and their father to now before seating herself at the kitchen table to carefully ladle the watery dish into three bowls.

In these twilight days, William Barrow will occasionally speak with Kate but never troubles himself even to acknowledge the presence of his only surviving son. Thomas is delighted at the rare respite from being his father's punching post albeit not without a twinge of guilt for the reason. He still has not offered to teach him any of the clockmaking trade nor has Thomas asked to be taught, already aware of the answer. It is more out of habit than out of any concern for his father's ailing business that every morning he winds all the display clocks just as he has always done. And because, too, there is something oddly soothing and secure in the steadily ticking heartbeats of those guardians of time. No, he cannot find in him any sympathy for the parent who has treated him so cruelly. But his sister is a different matter.

Thomas watches her now as they sit around the silent dinner table. She has given up on the conversation she tentatively began with Barrow senior, perhaps tiring of his monosyllabic answers, and is absently swirling a spoon around a dinner that is more soup than stew, and which never touches her lips. The light has gone out of her eyes and a familiar anger surges through him. For Kate is not only grieving the loss of their sibling.

She is grieving for the loss of her friend.

The day before Dr Swales was called out to Ben, and thus unaware of his sudden turn for the worse, Phyllis Baxter had left her lodgings in Buckley Street and seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. Although there were any number of supposed sightings.

A laundrywoman who knew her slightly thought she saw her walking along Clegg Avenue, but when she greeted her by name Miss Baxter, if it was indeed she, did not respond and hurried on; a newspaper boy claimed he saw her passing Whelan's Mill; someone was convinced they saw her wearing a blue hat boarding an electric tram going north and another was equally adamant she was wearing a black hat and sitting on a horse-drawn tram bound south; someone was certain they espied her with a carpet bag and waiting at the railway station; yet another said they definitely saw her shopping in a nearby town, and Miss Baxter must have been possessed of an extraordinary ability to be in several places at once, for she was apparently sighted in three different locations some distance apart at exactly the same time.

Her disappearance is the subject of much gossip and speculation and theories abound, from the possibility she has taken a short holiday to the suggestion she has gone to visit a sick relative, to the more sensational she has been murdered, the murderer is still at large, and searching for his next victim.

But all that was was known for certain was that Miss Baxter did not arrive for work at Jackson the grocer's one morning, nor did she keep her previous evening's appointment to undertake some sewing alterations for Miss Henrietta Fox. And that, abandoning everything, even her_ trousseau_, she had left her rent paid up till the end of the week _"in full and final settlement"_ in the drawer of a small hall table. It was where the rent collector and the landlord, who returned with both him and the key upon being informed he had received no answer despite knocking several times, found it next day.

She had left without warning or explanation and just when Kate needed her most. And only one other thing was certain.

Thomas would never forgive her.

_*rozzers_ – police officers


	8. Chapter 8

*****chapter 8*****

As they eat their meagre evening meal in silence, the ticking of the clocks all around the shop seems to grow ever louder, sentinels of all that has passed and all that will come to pass, telling their story in their relentless march,_ we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait_... And he knows now is not the time for humour – ha! Time! He laughs inwardly at the anomaly - but since when did he care for convention? It hurts him to see Kate so tired and miserable and that's all that matters. Their little brother is dead, her friend and confidant Miss Baxter has gone, Fred Lacey has another love. Small wonder she is so sad. Thomas wants her to smile again.

"Whip!"* he cries suddenly. But Kate doesn't smile. She merely gazes at him reproachfully and it angers him that she's still treading on eggshells around their father, who has done nothing to deserve her compassion.

"Do you think..." He begins conversationally, hell bent on driving a runaway coach and horses over the edge of a cliff now. But he's damned if he's going to pander to The Monster's whims any longer; "they say _whi__p_when they find a bit of meat in their food in the likes of Blackpool or Liverpool or Yorkshire, or is it just Manchester? And why do we say it, anyroad? Do you think they say anyroad in..."

"Enough!" William Barrow thuds his fist down on the table, making Kate jump.

Thomas smirks. _Aha, reaction, you __fat__buffoon__! _ "Not nearly enough," he says blithely, deliberately scraping the metal spoon against the bowl to set teeth on edge. "I'm still bloody hungry, I am. Sorry, Silly Sis." He grins at Kate, who only presses her lips together.

"It makes me sick just to look at you, you twisted piece of filth" the clockmaker spits in anger. "Get out of my ****ing sight!"

But things have changed since Ben's death. Thomas knows he's dicing with his own, but for the first time in his life, he eyeballs his father. "No," he loudly enunciates the small but powerful word. "Why the hell should I?"

For a second, William Barrow has no words. For just a second. Then, snarling like a wild beast, he pushes himself up. But he twisted his ankle, leaving it weak, the day of Ben's funeral in his desperation to touch his young son's coffin one very last time, and the small amount s off alcohol he drank earlier has, too, taken its toll. His balance is awry and he stumbles once, twice, catches hold of the chair in an effort to steady himself, knocking the table. His half-finished mug of tea topples and rolls and spills its contents over the floor.

Thomas sneers. _"You _are nothing more than a bloody stupid drunken old..."

"Tommy, stop it, _please!" _ Kate interjects hastily.

He shakes his head in amused pity at his sister. But he stops the taunts. For Kate's sake. Not for the sake of that drunken b*****d sitting (_whether he meant to or no, William Barrow has dropped heavily into the chair, panting with the recent exertion of standing_) not a million miles away. He feels a heady sense of triumph. So the tide has turned at last. Because, no, he had not imagined, and nor does he imagine now, that flicker of fear in William Barrow's eyes.

He can't think of him as The Monster any more, not when he, Thomas, is taller, broader, stronger. _He _is nothing! A coward. A drunk. A pot-bellied oaf. Not worth the dirt on his shoe. Those years of being beaten by his father have passed, just as the ticking of the clocks predicted and still predict whatever may come tomorrow..._we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait…_

"Tommy, will..." Kate begins. But what she might have said next to dissuade him from the new power game he is thoroughly enjoying playing, he would never know. A sudden frantic hammering on the door of the shop startles all three out of the drama.

It is not the first time someone has knocked so fiercely at the clockmakers. Yesterday, accompanied by loud demands to know whether the shop is open for business or not, despite the pulled down shutters and the notice firmly declaring not, and despite it being the early hours of the morning, the inebriated caller had eventually given up when nobody troubled to answer after twenty minutes or of drunken ramblings about anything and everything, the evil wiles of those who conspired against him buying a new pocket watch; the incompetence of the Prime Minister; the danger of motor-cars and even the inferior taste of the plum pudding he ate at luncheon.

This voice is different.

Not the inane ramblings of some intoxicated fool, but a banshee-like wail repeating the same plea over and over. "Mr Barrow! Mr Barrow, oh, open up, please!"

Kate and Thomas exchange baffled glances. But neither is particularly alarmed. They have long come to know Helen Latham has a history of over-reacting to matters of little importance. Thomas often laughs at the tales Paul regales him with, and had himself borne witness to the high drama of the afternoon the widow didn't have enough hat pins.

Had she not still been unwell – she had complained again only this morning of her sore throat and shivering - no doubt Kate, always calm in a crisis, would have gone to see whatever was the matter. Or perhaps, Thomas suspects, it's her deep-rooted dislike of Helen Latham, for she stubbornly refuses to be swayed from her conviction the pretty young widow is plotting to take the place of Mam. Thus it is the clockmaker who moves first. Entertained by his unsteadiness in his haste to reach the woman he is besotted with, Thomas clicks his tongue mockingly to provoke him.

If he hears, his father pays no heed, concentrating only on keeping his balance. His son guffaws at his struggle. Wait until he shares news of his victory with Paul! His heart leaps suddenly at the thought.

"Tommy, that was cruel," Kate chides, unamused. She is busy now mopping up the spilled tea. She never stops working, he reflects. Sometimes he thinks he should help her with her many chores, but looking after a home is woman's work and not for a man unless he happens to work in a toff's grand residence and is paid to do it. Come to think of it, he wouldn't mind a bit wearing the same get-up as their snooty servants, he could just picture how impressed Paul would be to see him swanning around dressed up to the nines.

.

"But didn't you see him, Kate? Afraid of me at last!" He snaps himself out of his daydream.

She rinses out the floorcloth and throws it into a bowl, frowning as she wipes her hands on her pinny. "I know Dada beats you and it's wrong, but..."

"Well, he bloody well won't be doing that in a hurry again!"

"...he's old," she continues, as if he hasn't spoken. "And The Bible says to honour thy father and thy mother."

He snorts. "Like I care what The Bible says! Sodom and Gomorrah and all that bloody rubbish!" He knew the story well because William Barrow was particularly fond of referring to it with regard to his son's _"perversions"_. Some nonsense from the Old Testament about a vengeful God destroying ancient cities supposedly because of their homosexual acts. He didn't believe in any God or any Bible fairy stories, he told his father, sarcastically emphasising the word "fairy" whilst well aware he was lighting the touch paper to his anger.

Kate would know of Sodom and Gomorrah, of course. She had never missed attending church or Sunday School, not even when Thomas began being conspicuous by his absence, no matter how many times he was caned at school on Monday mornings for it. But whether she believes the story or not, she chooses never to mention it. She has never quite understood his preference for males, but she has never quite judged him either. If she would only _"lift the scales from thine eyes",_ as he recollected being another of the Bible's favourite quotes, she would surely see all the fault lay with William Barrow. Though it's hard for her, he realises, when she loves both her father and her brother.

She gathers up the used supper dishes, clattering them noisily to signify her disapproval. "You ought to be more concerned about Mrs Latham than scoring points off Dada."

"Well, so I am," he replies merrily. And truthfully. Well, concerned about Paul anyroad. Paul's Mam will be in a tizzy over summat daft as usual, can't find her best bonnet, or forgot to pay the baker's bill, or thought someone had slighted her. Whatever it is, she knows that lovesick idiot will come running just as he has done. They can hear him frantically unlocking the heavy bolts and his murmurs of reassurance in between Helen Latham's wails. In the unlikely event it actually _is_ something worth worrying over this time, though, that might mean Paul being upset and Thomas cared about _that__**.**_ "And don't pretend like YOU give a damn, Kate!" He adds, with a sly grin.

She huffs, caught out, and opens her mouth to protest, but the return of their father puts a stop to any further conversation. And two things surprise Thomas. One, Mrs Latham, sobbing heartily, as is her usual custom no matter how trivial the matter, and although she had never subscribed to the fashion for widow's weeds, is dressed from head to toe in black. Two, the clocksmith seems to be no longer the cowed bully he was but moments ago…

And that very unsettling fact catches Thomas off guard, giving William Barrow time enough to swing his fist as he hobbles toward him. But his son is faster. He swifty dodges the forthcoming blow with ease, and as he does a crumpled piece of paper flutters from his father's grasp. He catches a glimpse of his own fancy looped handwriting on the back of one of the shop invoices and recognises it instantly.

It's the poem about star cross'd lovers that he painstakingly copied out of Kate's poetry book to give to Paul. He had decorated it with a heart, an arrow shot through it, and their names entwined, wrapped it in a discarded scrap of cloth he found next to his sister's sewing box and hidden a square of chocolate for him in one of its folds. They often exchanged such small gifts for their _"_pillow dream_s" _hoping by placing them under their pillow they might dream of the other, and someweeks before, with a smile, he had slipped it into the inside pocket of his friend's jacket, which made Paul giggle –_ oh, that boy tickled so easily!_ \- as his fingers brushed against his chest. Fighting to keep a straight face himself, Thomas told Paul there was a _sweet surprise_ hidden too and he must promise not to open it until he was home. The cloth and the chocolate were long gone – knowing how much Paul loved chocolate, Thomas suspected he had broken his promise immediately by devouring it the moment he was out of sight - but how has his father come by the poem?

The question is answered almost before he finishes forming the thought.

"I found the note you gave him! I found it inside the pillow-case when I changed Paul's bedsheets! Boys loving boys, it's not natural, it's the work of the devil!" Mrs Latham points a trembling finger at Thomas, her voice rising to a hysterical crescendo. "You killed him! You killed my little boy!"

He stares at her in confusion. Paul can't possibly be dead! He can't! He saw him a week or so ago and apart from his cold everything was as it had always been.

William Barrow attempts to swing his fist at Thomas again. As ineffectually and half-heartedly as he did before, torn between his desire to impress the widow and his new-found terror of his son. "You sick perv..."

"No, Dada!" Looking tired and worn since their argument, Kate has been standing, or rather, leaning, to one side all the while, resting her hands on the table top as if for support, breathing rapidly, perhaps, Thomas thinks, in fear of what might happen next between him and his father. But now she hastily puts herself between them although the barrier is unnecessary. Thomas is too agile and already stepped aside and Barrow is still too wary to deliver any blow. A second time, his fist connects with nothing but air.

And it isn't Thomas who falls. It's Kate.

_*I had a very elderly relative who was brought up in Lancashire. Apparently, when he was a boy it was quite common to shout "whip" when finding meat in a meal – although he had no idea about the origin of the custom either!_


	9. Chapter 9

*****chapter 9*****

**A/N:** _Ookaaay, drawing this story to a close __over the next couple of chapters a__s it's just not generating enough interest or feedback. So going to skip scenes and take a leap into the future..._

Even now, all these years later. it was hard to accept Kate was dead. She would have been so proud of him, he knew. Paul would have been impressed as well, and maybe even Ben, if he'd lived and they'd got over their differences, would've bragged about his big brother. A butler in Downton Abbey, no less! And not only a butler, but friend of the Grantham family...He smiled fleetingly, lost in thought. No, don't push it, Thomas lad. You're not exactly going to sink a few pints at the Dog and Duck with the Earl of Grantham and the other upstairs folk any time soon...friend of the Downton Abbey _children_, more like.

His smile widened. Just thinking of Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold never failed to make his heart lighter. They were funny and even funnier because they didn't know they were. Miss Sybbie once declared, quite seriously and with not a hint of sarcasm, that she didn't need to wash her face every day because it would only get dirty again. Oh, and she might as well not wash her hands either, she added proudly; Nurse Fletcher already had lots to do and it would save her so much time if she didn't have to oversee Sybbie's morning ablutions.

Then there was the time the three children had been paddling in the shallow brook and Master George decided he was quite grown up enough to put his own shoes and socks back on, as he'd just seen Thomas do. He managed well enough with the first shoe after several attempts. The second shoe, however...No matter how hard the little boy tried, left foot and left shoe refused to be reunited and he stubbornly batted off all offers of help.

"_One foot growed big in the night!"_ He announced, triumphant at his "discovery", and rather hurt when his best friend Thomas and Nurse burst out laughing. It _must_ be the reason, he insisted almost tearfully, only mollified when the butler promised faithfully that on their morning walk tomorrow he would put him on his shoulders and play _"__very, very, very fast__ charging horses". _ Thus he was carried back to Downton Abbey, one shoe on, one shoe off, yelling excitedly, "_Mama! Mama! One foot growed big in the night!"_

Shortly after the children had been taken to see Peter Pan at the theatre, Miss Marigold quite gravely told Thomas she didn't believe in fairies, but she wasn't going to _say_ it in case it made a fairy drop down dead. While Sybbie was becoming quite the tomboy, determined to do everything Master George and all boys were allowed to do, only _better_, which was why she regularly climbed trees and was very fond of _"marching like a soldier"_, Miss Marigold was becoming quite the little lady. Or so she believed.

Which was why, aided and abetted by Miss Sybbie and Master George, she sneaked into the garden wearing Lady Edith's turquoise ballgown. Even allowing for the fact her cousins were holding the trailing garment as though attending a bride at a wedding, the ballgown was covered in mud, due, in no small fact, to Lady Marigold falling over at regular intervals, which seemingly required all three to fall over giggling. Fortunately, Miss Baxter and Anna between them performed some miracle with the dress and, as Thomas agreed to keep the children's secret, they were never found out.

He and Paul had only been children themselves when they fell in love, celebrating their thirteenth birthdays a couple of months apart soon after they met. They knew each other for only a very short while, and yet that short time he spent with Paul had been the happiest of his life. His life! A stab of guilt pierced Thomas's heart.

At least he still had a life to live. Paul, Kate, Ben...none of them did.

His sister never woke again after collapsing that day. Exhaustion, Dr Swales diagnosed. And it seemed she, too, was in the early stages of diphtheria. The disease was sweeping the town now. It was one of the reasons Thomas was considering leaving forever. The other reason was his father.

Ironically, when it was what she wanted most, they had forged their uneasy truce only after Kate's passing. William Barrow had a new-found respect for him, borne out of fear now he was much taller and stronger, afraid he would seek retribution for all the years of beatings. He might have chanced his luck had he known the only thing staying his hand was that he looked like Ben. He and Kate had always resembled their Irish mother with their black hair and blue eyes; Ben had always been a miniature version of their father, with his small bird-like eyes, round face and sandy hair, although William Barrow's head was almost completely grey now.

The clockmaker had hired an old woman from the town to shop, cook and clean for them and Maggie Sedgwick busied herself with a thousand and one chores, from the moment she arrived in early morning until she left late at night, chores that only now Thomas realised gave Kate scarcely any time for rest.

Helen Latham never came by any more. His father had made a fool of himself, in Thomas's opinion, one last time by asking the young widow to marry him, arrogant enough to believe she might actually say yes. He spoke again of relocating the business to London, of the premises he had visited several times before Ben and Kate were taken ill; he intended to seal the deal soon, he said. Thomas never listened. Pie in the bloody sky. What the hell did he intend to use for money? He might have ceased his regular trips down the pub, but it was a damn sight too late when he'd already drunken away the profits.

It was much, much later he learnt William Barrow had a tidy sum tucked away in the bank, awaiting a time when his youngest son would take on his mantle. Consumed by grief, he had never thought to question how his father could afford for his siblings to have such lavish funerals, or wondered for a moment where the funds were magicked from to pay for Dr Swales's visits, and, later, employ old Maggie Sedgwick as housekeeper. If he had reflected on it at all, he would have simply assumed the clockmaker had taken out adequate insurance policies with a little left over.

But that knowledge was still many years away when, on an impulse, less than 24 hours after Kate was buried, he walked out of the shop for the last time. As if to mark the finality of the moment, the same cuckoo clock that chimed the day he met Paul struck the hour while the skies above darkened and rain wildly lashed the pavements. He shivered as he walked on without looking back, digging his hands deep into his pockets, pondering on his uncertain future. Going into service was the best a lad with his background could hope for and the conclusion he reached. A roof over his head, meals, a bit of brass in his pocket. He knew of a large house owned by a wealthy family who kept several servants some four or five miles away, just outside Manchester, and made up his mind he would head there.

His only detour was to Mrs Latham's to ask for a keepsake of Paul's. But though he begged and pleaded she was adamant in her refusal, threatening to call the police and show them the letters – she had found their precious communications tied with ribbon and carefully hidden at the back of a drawer she had to pull right out to find out why it was sticking. The same innocent declarations of love between a lad and a lass would hardly have raised an eyebrow. Between two boys, it would have led to his immediate arrest. He didn't dare so much as raise his voice in case it drew attention, muttering a few choice names and promising dire consequences if he ever saw her again, feeling a flutter of satisfaction when her face turned ashen, before he eventually turned away, angry, lonely, frustrated, but ultimately empty-handed.

Paul, Kate, Ben, they were all gone. Maybe it was easier not to let anyone get close and it was easier to rise in status if he didn't allow sentiment to hold him back. He was hired as boot boy at Hawthorne Grange, but he had no intention of being a boot boy forever. He had a sharp, cutting wit. He was clever. Ambitious. He moved quickly on from place to place, furthering his career and gaining an increase in salary every time.

Downton Abbey, though, that was where he finally began to settle. He had his sights set on becoming butler almost from the second he attended his interview with the Earl and Lady Grantham. But even more so when in his very first week he overhead Carson ranting to the under-butler about an article he'd read in the paper of two homosexuals being jailed for _"lewd acts"_.

"Prison's too easy. Should be strung up, abominations against God, every man jack of them!" he thundered, throwing the newspaper down in a fury, catching Thomas's gaze and sudden realisation and disgust falling over his features. They never liked each other much to begin with – Thomas had cultivated a bristling self-sufficiency that kept everyone except the equally scheming, and therefore useful, Miss O'Brien away – but they thoroughly despised each other after that.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Many thanks to DowntonReads for your very kind review.

*****chapter 10*****

Determined to reach the top of his profession, the clockmaker's son rose quickly in the ranks, allowing nothing and no-one to stand in his way. Carson could not fault his work, and although he wanted Thomas gone, Carson, unfortunately for the strait-laced middle-aged butler, was an honourable man, incapable of using underhand methods to ensure his dismissal.

Mrs Hughes, to the housekeeper's eternal detriment, was cursed with a soft heart that Thomas used to his own advantage. Dear God, he could play each and every one of them, upstairs or downstairs, like a bloody fiddle. With the Upstairs lot, he simply switched on the charm offensive and had them in his pocket, while dark mutterings and murmurs of mutiny from Downstairs was "_all __water off a duck's back"_, as Kate would have said. They would never dare carry out their threats. Those who were foolish enough to try quickly learnt the error of their ways. The firm of Barrow and O'Brien operated like a well-oiled machine and took no prisoners. Edna O'Brien was ruthless in pursuit of revenge and, in addition, Thomas Barrow kept what might have been called friends – if he had had any friends - in high places.

Such as Phillip Villiers, Duke of Crowborough …

The relationship was based on no more than convenience. They saw in each other the same hidden desires in the same sidelong questioning gazes that men of their kind must chance to give, though a lingering gaze on the wrong man may lead to imprisonment; they must learn to recognise and give the same small signals, all the while knowing the slightest misjudgement may brand them criminal, may even lock them inside a concrete prison for many years, inside a jail almost as lonely as the prison locked inside themselves, where they have lived in caution and fear all their lives.

Thus Thomas and Philip Villiers contrived to secretly arrange their trysts. And while some men of their persuasion might know the joy of being with one they cherished and adored, for them there was no romance, no sweet talk, no hearts filled with deep affection. Their plans were worked out with the same cold detachment one might use to work out household expenses, a straightforward, unemotional means to an end that benefited both. No love ever lost between them because there was no love to be lost. They sniped and scored points off each other in a continuous war of words and one-upmanship even while wrapped in each other's arms, sharing the same bed.

The Duke warned his would-be valet he was getting way above his station, but Thomas Barrow took that risk, arrogant enough to believe he had the upper hand with his blackmail threats, stupid enough to leave the incriminating correspondence in his room, forgetting his lover could be every bit as devious as himself. And too late to stop the letters being thrown on to the fire.

But then maybe Philip Villiers survived because there was no love. Not like with Reggie.

He was the best bloke in his regiment, was Reggie Morris, didn't deserve any of what happened. A year older than Thomas, ruddy faced, untidy cropped chestnut hair, wide brown eyes framed by long, silky lashes and a ready grin that often reminded him of Paul Latham. He spoke quietly, gently with a country accent Thomas occasionally had trouble understanding, had lived all his life on a farm with his grandparents, uncle and younger sister, and never once set foot outside his tiny Shropshire village until the Great War. But they were mates from the off.

He felt comfortable enough to disclose to Thomas, the first person he'd ever told, he said, that he'd never been interested in women, but had always been attracted to men. He felt that way about Thomas, he confessed, stammering in embarrassment and uncertainty, and relieved to learn the feeling was reciprocated. And somehow, amid the blood and mud and stench of the trenches; the fall of the rain as they buried in shallow graves men who had been living and breathing only hours before; amid the ceaseless dull roar of the shelling and the screams and prayers of the dying, they fell in love. And yet in their love they could do little more than dream of what might be, to brush against one another when they could, to share knowing looks, to smoke a cigarette the other's lips had touched, a love they never consummated, always watchful, always wary, lest the other lads in the regiment found them out...

Reggie died before his very eyes. Seconds too late to dodge the enemy grenade.

The last image he would ever have of him, blown to bits in a brief, bright, terrifying light sealed in his memory forever. And when they buried their dead that night, Reggie, too, was one of those lowered into the ground, his last resting place marked by a makeshift wooden cross, before being left behind with all of those men the Great War forever silenced, while the living pressed on forward.

He cried for days. Often in secret. Because tears were all he had. Comrades patted his shoulder, murmured brief words of sympathy. Then expected him to move on. They understood his grief for the death of his friend, but they probably never would have understood his yearning to sob inconsolably for the death of his lover.

And in the end, the madness, the terror, but most of all the loss of Reggie, was more than Thomas could bear. That talk with Matthew Crawley put the idea in his head although Matthew Crawley didn't realise it.

On the battlefield, death made everyone equal and they drank tea together and talked not as lord and footman, but simply as men. When he pondered on the possibility of perhaps returning to England to continue his war work as a medic, Lord Crawley's opinion was that his chances were slim and the transfer would only happen if he were wounded anyway. Well, if it took getting wounded to get him home, Thomas Barrow was going to make damned sure he got wounded.

He raised the small flame to offer his trembling arm to the Hun and the Hun eagerly accepted his sacrifice. The shrill whistle of a bullet immediately pierced the air and he felt its presence burn with excruciating pain into his hand, making him cry out in agony. But it was worth it to get him out of the insanity, away from the odd kind of brotherhood they all, even he, shared here on the Somme, the chit-chat and laughter and crude jokes while they sat round a fire in the dug-out picking the constant lice from their hair, skin and clothes, the ninety per cent boredom and ten per cent fear that, when it hit, hit with an all-encompassing terror, a closeness that only those who lived it night and day could ever hope to understand.

The hand injury was permanent, but the ploy was successful. He was transferred back to the surreal reality of Downton. To cry alone, even more bitter with the world.

Yes, War had touched Downton, but compared to the Somme, its touch had been feather-light, a breath of wind stealing through the trees on a bright summer's day, a few foam-tipped waves rippling slowly through the sea by the slight chill of early evening. Oh, things had changed. Upstairs and Downstairs, everyone was doing their bit in these strange times of young men being sent to their death in droves; none were idle.

A concert held to raise funds for the local hospital, and in which it seemed almost everyone, from Lord Grantham himself down to hall boys and scullery maids, had been involved in some way or other, exceeded all expectations, and there was a constant buzz of excitement among the serving staff over the unfounded rumour there might be a second concert soon. Many of the Downton women were knitting hats, gloves and scarves to keep the boys on the Front warm in the forthcoming winter and many of the Downton men, those too old or too young or too sick to be called up, were volunteering their help on the nearby farms.

Lady Sybil was training as a nurse, and worked at the local hospital alongside the Countess of Grantham, and now Thomas too, under the supervision of Dr Clarkson, while Lady Edith had learnt to drive and was busy providing books and writing letters and a listening ear to the wounded soldiers.

But still the Abbey pandered to its petty concerns.

Charles Carson was on a sharp look out to try and identify who was responsible for a lamp found broken in the drawing room. Mrs Patmore the cook had been ill for a day or two and she fussed and fretted and fidgeted over whether the family really did like a new recipe Daisy had tried in her absence until the little kitchen maid was almost ready to throw down her cap and apron and storm out. The latest gossip below stairs was all about Lady Mary having had quite the tantrum and heated words with her sister and arch-enemy Lady Edith over a bottle of Paris perfume..

He slipped into the grey half-world with his usual disdain. Cold, aloof, smug. And, to his great satisfaction, being Lance Sergeant Thomas Barrow, medic, a man of importance. He saw the frowns of the Downstairs staff, heard their whispers, and swaggered all the more. Sod the b*****ds. They couldn't argue with his uniform, with the stripes on his arm, with the fact he had been out there on the front line, fighting for his country.

At least Lady Sybil was kind to him, though. But then the youngest Crawley daughter had always been different. She never seemed to see in Thomas what others saw, the arrogance, the cruelty, the scheming to get what he wanted, whatever the cost to anyone else. Which was odd because he saw these traits clearly in himself. But it was hard to be all these things when she spoke to him with a respect he never earned and never deserved, when she disregarded societal convention and asked him, a lowly servant, for advice on medical matters, bowing to his greater knowledge and experience.

She wanted to learn as much as she could about nursing so that she could be useful, not to while away her days in privilege and luxury, she told Thomas, and it was a great comfort to know she had in him a friend she could always rely on. He wanted to tell her it was a lie, he was too selfish, too callous, too manipulative, to be a true friend to anyone. But he didn't. She smiled when she shared the confidence and something stirred in his heart, waking long subdued memories of how he had loved once, of years gone by and Kate and Ben and Paul. It was impossible not to smile back. His first genuine smile since Reggie.

Sybil Crawley reminded him so much of Kate, never judging, never demanding, never questioning his homosexuality, simply accepting him for who and what he was. Close in age and younger than many of the other medical staff, they found a quiet, steady strength and reassurance in each other in their harrowing work, in seeing strong, brave men, shadows of their former selves, so damaged by war they sobbed like babes in arms; in steeling themselves not to vomit at the sight of mangled bodies or weep over broken minds; in trying not to break down when the thin, pale schoolboy who'd lied about his age to join the Army and lucky to escape with his life on a battlefield far from home was brought back to the tender care and kinder shores of Blighty only to fall in the final battle we all will face sooner or later.

And it was only natural that he and Lady Sybil should worry together about Edward Courtenay...


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: ** Thank you so much to **HamiltonAsparagus** and **Guest **for your lovely reviews, really appreciated.

I got a bit carried away writing about Edward Courtenay. I guess I just like writing about complicated characters. I also love writing about children, in case anyone hadn't already noticed! :D

*****chapter 11*****

Lieutenant Edward Courtenay was a handsome, well-educated man with a quiet, polite manner, thick dark hair and piercing blue eyes. That was the first thing Thomas noticed about him. _Really_ noticed. Those eyes. Not his quiet charm or quick-fire wit or easy laughter - though of course he noticed all of this. But those eyes...They made him draw a sudden sharp breath when Dr Clarkson removed the bandages to check on his progress.

He'd been brought into the cottage hospital a few days earlier, blinded by the mustard gas the Fritz liked to chuck over the boys on the Front. Evil bloody business, that was, Thomas reflected. He'd known many a poor b*****d suffer the same fate, watched them shuffling helplessly in a crooked line of four or five, hands pressed down on each other's shoulders, being led like children to the rest camp or the dug-out of the s**t pit. Most regained their sight and there was no reason to believe Edward Courtenay wouldn't. But somehow his suffering got to him more.

He and Lady Sybil (or Nurse Crawley, as she preferred to be called) and Courtenay had struck up a friendship. Though their conversations were of necessity brief in the hustle and bustle of the ward, he could hold a listener spellbound with tales of his life as a young boy and the animals he would nurse back to health, often injecting his own special blend of humour into his stories. It was strange to hear him talk in the same breath, and even with pride, of the animals he hunted for sport. But then the lieutenant was a paradox. As if another Edward Courtenay existed beneath the self-assured persona, the clown, the raconteur, and he was merely playing a part.

And so he was.

He was born into the hunting, fishing and shooting set, and achieved the academic greatness he dreamed of under the dreaming spires of Oxford, he said with a wry smile (_poking fun at himself and his __string of qualif__i__cations __when Thomas asked about the long row of abbreviations after his name __on a lette__r_) and, while he enjoyed those pursuits well enough, all he ever really wanted to do was farm.

For a peace settled on a man's soul when he ploughed the soil of God's earth, when he brought in the harvest, or witnessed the miracle of newborn lambs and foals on unsteady legs blinking in wonder at the world. Although often he pondered on how he could reconcile the killing of one with the nurturing of the other, it all seemed to make perfect sense inside his head as he lay listening to the ticking of the clock on the nearby wall.

He found in its rhythm a stalwart companion, when he needs must use ears instead of eyes, and together they marked the world they lived in, the timing of meals and the doctor's rounds; when medicines were dispensed by morning or when gas-lamps burned low by evening. It became a particular source of pride for him to be able to announce the time almost to the minute, and he turned it into an amusing game between Thomas, Sybil and himself, urging them to call out to ask.

Oddly enough, sweetly enough, it was a skill which Thomas, having _"grow__n__ up __surrounded by __all manner of __clocks, __dials__ and timepieces",_ had acquired too, although, he admitted teasingly, with not as much accuracy and certainly not as much flair as Edward. And, while he had never come across anyone else with the same time-telling ability before, he once overheard a customer in his father's shop brag she only had to look at a woollen garment to be able to knit it from memory alone. Another time, he was sent on a Christmas errand by his first employer, Lord Buckley of Hawthorne Grange, to carry a message to a relative of his Lordship, an accomplished pianist who had played several times at the Royal Albert Hall, and who, it was claimed, had such a fine ear for music that he only need listen to a new melody once to remember every single note.

Being a naive youth of not quite fourteen, and shiny and new to Household etiquette, Master Thomas Barrow somehow weaved his way to an area of the House he never should have been in (_a matter of great consternation to the Household staff after the discovery_) where Sir Cecil Anthony Almond and his friend, both florid-faced from having imbibed far too much Christmas cheer, paid him no heed whatsoever as they listened to the gramophone record, the friend removed it from the turntable and then, with a bow, as though he were on stage at that very moment, Sir Cecil sat at the piano and proceeded to play the very same stirring music, while the forgotten errand boy, with _"icicles dripping down from his nose__ on to the carpet already __drenched in puddles of __snow __from his hobnail__ boots"_, shivered in the corner until being rudely snatched away by a horrified footman who happened by.

However, Thomas continued, as he and Courtenay, mindful that other, and sicker, patients were close by, collapsed into subdued giggles like mischievous schoolboys, it was highly unlikely they would be able to use their particular talent to knit the perfect woollen garment, and even more unlikely that they would be called upon to show off the skill at the Royal Albert Hall.

Ah, _but ..! _As correctly guessing the time was a skill few possessed, Edward added, "_they may rest assured they would never have a usurper to their joint throne". _ With a deep smile Edward sensed and returned, Thomas squeezed the hand he yearned to touch with his lips, and gathered up razor, shaving brush, mug and towel, the reason for his visit. Their unique ability, albeit of somewhat limited use, was yet another way in which they bonded.

Young together, and with the whole world opening out before them, Thomas, Edward and Sybil had learnt so much about each other in such a short while, sharing hopes and dreams, doubts and fears.

Away from Downton Abbey, Thomas's iron facade crumbled. Busy with his work, he saw little of the Downstairs staff, and in any case was too exhausted to play his usual power games. At the cottage hospital, now in danger of overcrowding as more and more wounded soldiers were being brought in and more and more beds needed, he was highly valued by the other medical staff, regarded with gratitude and often affection by the patients he tended. The friendship between the three blossomed like the green shoots of spring. Words grew deeper and hearts grew closer.

Especially between Thomas and Edward.

No matter how tired his body or how tantalisingly the warm arms of slumber beckoned, he got into the habit of sitting at the lieutenant's bedside just before he finished a shift. Afternoons were as rushed as always, but night breaking into morning with its grey half-light, or the remains of the day with its lengthening shadows, were their favourite times, when the ward slowed with quieter movements, with whispers and softer footfalls and breaths of sleep. Sometimes Lady Sybil might be finishing the same shift and join them, but if they were locked in confidences, as they often were, then with a smile she would slip silently away, unnoticed.

Beyond the fact he'd had two siblings, not even Reggie had known the full story of Thomas's childhood, but he found himself telling Edward. About Paul, his first love, of their first true kiss and the sweetness of each other's lips on the day of the morning rainbow. About Kate, his staunch defender and ally, who loved and cared for him like a mother, even though she never could quite understand his ways. About Ben and their early days of brotherhood until enmity seized their souls, but must never have quite gripped their hearts because often he saw, but never quite realised, the hurt in his small brother's eyes when they argued, and how his death, like the deaths of Paul and Kate, broke his heart.

Of his tears when no one saw, and the beatings William Barrow gave his son for his _"perversions",_ and then, from nowhere, an odd kind of pity for his father. Of the sights and sounds and smells of the clockmakers shop, the constant stream of people and wagons passing by, the shouts from the outside market, and came one day the sudden furious drunken argument and thirty men or more are gathered at the public house on the corner of the high street, yelling and jeering and scuffling, and Thomas, eight years old, pressing his face against the upstairs window of the clockmakers, half in fear, half in excitement, and frustrated he can't see anything at all for the crowd surrounding the main protagonists, and then a long, long terrible scream, which is, at first, lost among the cacophony of noise, until it rises above all, and as the crowd, silenced now, falls away, a figure lies slumped in the mouth of the alleyway and rich red blood streaks in zig-zag lines over the uneven flagstones to flow down along the gutter like tributaries to a river, while the murderer staggers and sways, brandishing the bloodied carving knife.

Of his father's unrequited love for Helen Latham, the pretty young widow, who refused to give Thomas even a small memento of her son after Paul's death, and the bitterness he still harboured toward her. Of Phyllis Baxter, seamstress and shop girl, well liked by all, even the cantankerous clockmaker, and her friendship with Kate, who, missing a mother and female confidant, too burdened with taking care of her family, from when she was barely eight years old, to have time to make friends, told Thomas she loved her like the sister she'd always dreamed of. Miss Baxter, who one morning upped and left and never any explanation, and Thomas swore he never could and never would forgive her for deserting Kate just when she most needed a friend.

Edward had led a charmed childhood in comparison, protected and cosseted as he was, growing up in the green hills and wide valleys of the countryside, far, far away from the polluted air and deaths and diseases of overcrowded towns. It was a boyhood of holidays by the seaside and in Europe; loving parents and doting nursemaids; of enough to eat and plenty of it; glittering Christmases when the Christmas tree would almost touch the ceiling at its top and be festooned by gifts at its foot; of books and toys, painting, poetry and playing piano; of small private schools and later boarding school. The latter where he discovered there were other boys like himself. Two or three, perhaps more, he speculated; it was an age of experiment and uncertainty, strong friendships and confused emotions. Though, like most did later, he denied who he truly was, deep down he knew. Ever since he could remember, he knew.

There had been however one cloud on the golden horizon. And all these years later, there still was.

Jack. His younger brother and only sibling. Even now, there was no chance of a reconciliation between Edward and Jack as there just might have between Thomas and Ben. They were, and always had been, chalk and cheese, night and day, summer and winter. Edward loved to paint, to read poetry, and play music; he could sit for hours quietly sketching the dramatic beauty of nature. Jack's world was fierce and stormy. He scorned _fops and dandies_, as he categorised his elder brother- at least, when he was being _polite_, Edward laughed. Jack welcomed the War as a chance to _"kill a few dozen Huns"_, rising so swiftly through Army ranks that, to his great satisfaction, he was soon more senior than Edward. But then, ever since they were children he had despised his brother for being what he was, chipping away at his self-esteem, making him feel so dirty and ashamed, that for almost a decade Edward hid his feelings, even tried one or two relationships with women. Nothing came from those relationships, he said. Nothing ever could.

And he no longer wished to deny who he truly was, he whispered, his breath brushing lightly against Thomas's ear, sending delicious shivers down his companion's spine, resting his hand on his arm far longer than was necessary for a blind patient being helped by a medic to navigate the hospital grounds, although neither man objected. Thomas's hand reached up to Edward's and their fingers locked.

They had known each other for such a brief time, but the precariousness of War gave everyone, especially the young, a greater urgency. They talked tentatively of their future. They were not so alone, Edward whispered; there were places, hidden places, where men met other men. Some believed, too, that as the Continentals had no qualms about displaying their emotions openly, they might be more tolerant than the stiff upper-lipped British. Imagine the horror here, he smiled, if two Englishmen were to kiss one another on the cheeks by way of greeting! Perhaps, he added wistfully, when this war to end all wars was over, they might settle abroad. He had the means to do so, his parents had left him and his brother an inheritance. Being the eldest and therefore receiving the biggest slice of the cake, it had caused even more animosity between himself and his brother. But although Jack might try to discredit him, to threaten to have him branded a criminal and declared insane because of his homosexuality, he would never win. Like Thomas, he'd had enough of being "pushed around". Nothing would stop them from being together. Always, Thomas promised. Always.

It was the following morning when Dr Clarkson broke the news to Lieutenant Courtenay. The damage to his eyes was too severe to be reversed. His blindness would be permanent…


	12. Chapter 12

Many thanks to **HamiltonAsparagus** for your lovely review

**A/N: ** I've changed the timeline a little in the next couple of chapters.

*****chapter 12*****

_My Darling Edward_

"_I remember so well when I walked on to the ward that terrible, terrible morning. Dr Clarkson was just moving away from your bed and my heart lifted when I saw the bandages were off your beautiful blue eyes at last. And for a wonderful moment I imagined everything we spoke of was going to come true. I'd hand in my notice at Downton Abbey. We'd move abroad. Find a home – not too grand, we said, somewhere we would be anonymous -and live out our lives in happiness and contentment. It was only as I got closer I saw those beautiful blue eyes were shining with tears..."_

Thomas screwed up the letter he would never send. Edward Courtenay was dead. Nothing would bring him back. And it was weak and dangerous to reveal his emotions. He was hated here at Downton and anybody could use it against him. Well, anybody being Sarah O'Brien.

The other servants might gossip about him, regard him with dislike and distrust, make barbed comments about his _"perversions"_\- Jesus, did it never occur to any of them how much being hated hurt? He might have a sarcastic comment to bite back with every single time, but he was still a human being with feelings, for Christ's sake! Not that you'd know it, not from the way this lot carried on. Maybe he didn't help himself with his arrogance, but that was his defence mechanism and prompted by their hate. Swings and roundabouts, Kate would have said, swings and roundabouts. And _"give a dog a bad name and hang him"_. Or perhaps even _"if the cap fits, wear it"_. She had a saying for every occasion, did Kate. He wondered what she would have said about Miss O'Brien.

Because Sarah O'Brien took hatred to another level. Her revenge for his petty attempts to undermine her nephew after she persuaded Carson to hire Alfred as footman, knowing full well Thomas was next in line for the job, would have, if she had succeeded in her efforts, cost him his home and livelihood, sent him to jail and ensured he would never work again. Fortunately, Jimmy Kent didn't want to press charges after Thomas, stupidly believing Miss O'Brien's lies about Jimmy being keen on him, made a pass. Things had settled down somewhat since then. Alfred was gone to train as a chef in a top hotel and his aunt would be leaving for India next week, having accepted a position elsewhere. Their partnership would never recover from its earthquake-sized schism, however.

Ironic how everyone assumed Miss O'Brien and Mr Barrow to have rekindled their splintered friendship. They had never been friends in the first place. During their smoking breaks a good distance away from the House, in between the rubbish bins and the garden sheds where they could be sure of a private conversation, they discovered they both regarded most of the Household staff as the enemy and therefore could prove useful to each other. That Thomas Barrow disliked Sarah O'Brien and Sarah O'Brien disliked Thomas Barrow was conveniently overlooked in the interests of mutual gain.

She would be leaving for India with her new employer next week, thank God. No more being constantly on his guard around someone as devious and cunning as himself. Give O'Brien an inch and she'd take a mile. He smiled wryly. There you go, he knew he'd come up with another of his sister's saying if he waited long enough.

The ladies maid had caught him once setting fire to a previous letter to Edward.

"What's that you're burning?" She tried to make it sound friendly, jokey even, but she couldn't hide the gleeful spite in those sharp, bird-like eyes.

"My life," he replied enigmatically, to pique her curiosity. He had finished his smoke and was due back inside. He smirked as he heard hear her poking around among the crumbling pieces of charred paper in the ash holder as soon as his back was turned. Let her waste her time. There was nothing left to find.

Except in his heart.

And there would be no more letters.

Except inside his head.

Pale sunlight was streaming inside his poky, quiet room, lending an unexpected warmth to the cold spring day and catching dust motes in its wake, and Thomas rose from the small writing table to open a window. Jimmy Kent happened to be strolling below in the lazy, cocky way that characterised Jimmy and he toyed with the idea of throwing a penny down just to startle him. Nope, probably not a wise move. Jimmy would see the funny side and no doubt try and chuck something back, but Carson would have something to say about if if he saw.

They were buddies now, him and Jimmy, despite their early misunderstanding, when he believed the new footman had feelings for him and chanced a tender kiss that, to his shock and horror, had Jimmy yelling and screaming as though he was being murdered. That kiss was all down to O'Brien stirring her cauldron. She would be thousands of miles away and out of his hair forever soon, but she taught him a valuable lesson. Never trust anyone ever again.

His wistful gaze followed his golden-haired friend until he was almost lost from sight among the majestic trees that lined the extensive grounds of the Abbey. He could still taste that kiss, feel again that euphoria of hope and desire so quickly and cruelly dashed. If only he'd felt the same way about Thomas. But he didn't and he never could. Jimmy was not a homosexual. Not a pervert nor a queen nor a faggot, nor any of the other dozens of derogatory names they gave to people like Thomas. At least he had his friendship, though, and he treasured it. Except for their preferences, they were kindred spirits in many ways, with their similar sense of humour and unwillingness to suffer fools gladly. Thomas had remarked one time on how they were alike in yet another way, that underneath their outward air of confidence they were both so unsure of themselves. Jimmy didn't deny it, but he didn't confirm it either and now that he knew him better, he realised he said nothing not because he agreed, but simply because he was too lazy to argue. James Albert Kent had confidence in spades. Nothing daunted Jimmy, nothing dented his belief in himself, nothing anyone told him ever caused him a moment's concern. But, good mates or not, there were secrets Thomas would always keep to himself. Like how he ached with loneliness. Even after all these years.

Although he tried to convince himself otherwise, it wasn't true that, until Jimmy Kent, everybody at Downton Abbey treated him with contempt. Lady Sybil had been different. They built up a strong and, he thought, unbreakable friendship, Lady Sybil, Edward Courtenay and Thomas, when he worked as a medic at the cottage hospital. The Crawleys and Dr Clarkson aside, nobody knew him from his life before and he slipped easily into a new identity they would never have recognised.

Thomas Barrow became someone who _cared. _

A few patients even assumed he was a doctor and addressed him as such. Dr Clarkson had not been amused when Bob Andrews, the bloke brought in with his right leg peppered with bullets, and which they knew they would have to amputate sooner or later, asked could he have a second opinion_ "from Dr Barrow, __as he'd__ been __out there in No Man's Land__ so __he __kn__ew__ a __helluva __lot more about __Blighty wounds__"._ Teddy wiped away tears of laughter when Thomas told how Dr Clarkson looked like he was about to have an apoplectic fit and…

_Teddy. Do you mind me still thinking of you as Teddy? When I first used the name, you said nobody had called you Teddy since Nurse Williams when you were a very small boy. And then you launched into one of your crazy stories…_

Thomas stifled a poignant laugh. He didn't like being called Teddy back then, Edward Courtenay claimed, because people might believe he was a real live teddy bear. In his defence, he pointed out, he was barely two years old. And then he described how he'd held his breath until Nurse Williams promised never to call him Teddy again and gave him some sweets to placate him, but he ate so many he threw up all over her uniform while playing on his rocking horse.

_My love, you would have been twelve years old when Teddy Roosevelt refused to shoot the bear cub_*****_, a damn sight too bloody old for teddy bears! But you loved to spin your yarns, as the Yanks say, didn't you? Because, you said, there was enough sadness in the world. And, you whispered, our fingers brushing when no-one saw, you liked to hear **me **call you Teddy, though. We had grown so close in just a short while, you and I. And that morning I walked on to the ward so full of happiness and dreams of our future, the same morning Dr Clarkson announced your beautiful blue eyes were too damaged to save and your blindness was permanent. _

Nothing more could be done for him at the cottage hospital, and as beds were urgently needed for those they _could_ help, Dr Clarkson glibly informed the young lieutenant, he would be transferred to a convalescent home in Scotland as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made.

Edward Courtenay spiralled into a deep depression after that and nothing Thomas or Sybil Crawley did or said could reassure and pull him out of the black abyss he dug in his mind. No more jokes or laughter or amusing tales of his childhood. He focussed only on his losses. He would never be able to hunt, fish or shoot, never admire the beauty of nature, never sketch or see again the dramatic landscapes he had once so cherished. Just as he had begun to recover from the trauma of the battlefield, he was being torn away from Thomas and Sybil, the two people who had helped him most in that recovery.

They went together to try and persuade Clarkson to keep him at the hospital, to explain that his depression would worsen if he were moved, but the doctor was adamant. They were overcrowded as it was, lots of soldiers did better away from an environment of sick people, he needed to learn how to live independently and not rely so heavily on others. In fact, he had been extremely unhappy with the attention nurse and medic had bestowed upon a favourite at the expense of other patients, he admonished.

_My darling, darling Teddy, did you think I could never love you enough to care for you? I would have stayed by your side forever. I still think about you all the time, when I hear a certain song, when someone lights up a Woodbine, whenever I smell apples. And there's always someone, somewhere smoking Woodbines, some old soldier whistling It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary. And apples, they've always been easy to come by here, the Abbey orchard's full of 'em, the reason the stewed apple you were so fond of was on the hospital menu almost every day. I loved you...and you left me…_

Thomas choked back a sob – dear Jesus, if anyone walking past his room heard him cry! - pressed his fingertips against his eyelids before any telltale tears could fall, drew a deep, shuddering sigh and cast away his dreams. He was on duty soon and nothing must spoil the facade he presented to the world.

He strode over to the mirror, fixed his collar, tugged down his sleeves, spat on his comb and tamed some stray hairs back into place. An image of perfection. Robotic, even. Not a hint, not a whisper of how Lieutenant Edward Courtenay's death haunted him still.

_***The teddy bear is named after US President Theodore Roosevelt, who refused to shoot a bear cub in 1902**_


	13. Chapter 13

*****chapter 13*****

**HamiltonAsparagus** You were right about Denker singing the Tipperary song. I'd completely forgotten until I saw a repeat of DA recently. I originally chose it because I read it was one of the most popular songs of the First World War.

**DowntonReads My** updates will usually be four-weekly, though I am going on holiday soon (staying in the UK, fortunately, going abroad these days is too uncertain!) so the next chapter might be a bit late. Glad you enjoyed reading about Edward Courtenay's childhood.

Thank you, both, for reading and especially taking time to review.

**A/N: ** Again, the time line in my fic is is slightly different to what happened in the show in order to add my own spin on events – and my own fiction to it, of course :D

Not that he sought them out and nor did he do anything to encourage them, but it seemed Thomas Barrow was destined to always lose the few friends he made. James Kent had been a rare exception to his unwritten rule of bitterly resenting all. Admittedly, he originally took a shine to the man because he thought Jimmy extremely attractive and mistakenly believed him to be of the same persuasion as himself. Once that particular misconception was cleared up, however – and not without great trauma and distress on both sides - they discovered they had quite a lot in common and a friendship was born. They shared the same sometimes cruel sense of humour, the same disdain for anyone they considered beneath them, and of course it did no harm that he saved Jimmy from a beating at the Thirsk fair.

But Thomas Barrow's sterling record of losing those he cared about continued unblemished. Jimmy was gone from his life now. Caught in his former employer, Lady Anstruther's bedroom. Despite both parties being consensual to the night-time visit, he was dismissed before the scandal could catch the attention of the newspapers. Thomas had agreed to keep watch for his friend, but even he couldn't leave someone to die when Lady Edith accidentally set fire to her room. He had been skating on very thin ice yet again with his scheming and under threat of dismissal himself, but in the end his heroic deed earned him a reprieve while sealing Jimmy Kent's fate.

Lady Sybil was long gone too. And Thomas was still angry with Tom Branson for it. Bad enough that she married the jumped-up chauffeur without Branson apparently having a death wish for his wife. To begin with, he took her off to Ireland, knowing full well the political unrest there put her in grave danger. Revolutionaries were targeting the English upper classes like Lady Sybil, burning down their properties, turfing whole families out of their home, and worse. Jesus Christ, all she would have to do was open her mouth and say one word in that cut-glass accent of hers…! Next, he left her alone in his home country after he fled from the police. By some miracle, and no thanks to Branson, she made it back to Downton Abbey on her own.

And then Tom Branson killed her anyway. Sybil died in childbirth. Another reason for Thomas to hate him, as if his jumping rank and being waited on now by the likes of Thomas hadn't already been enough.

He was very fond of their daughter, though. Like Lady Sybil, Sybbie rebelled against convention and it was clear the tot had no intention of behaving as genteel society, even in these modern days of the 1920s, expected little girls to behave. Not for Miss Sybbie looking pretty, avoiding rough and tumble games, sitting demurely and playing quietly. Clever and lively and full of mischief, she had a finger in every pie, and often had her nurses at their wits end as she climbed and jumped, delved and dived, tore her dresses and cut her knees.

Thomas kept a fatherly eye on her from the very beginning and Nanny West lasted no more than days after he discovered she treated her charge unkindly and regarded her as a "half breed". He'd always had time for children and while he was arrogant as ever with his colleagues children quickly sensed his softer side,. Master George, embarrassingly enough, on one memorable occasion, cried heartily to be released from his Mama, Lady Mary's lap, and held out his arms for Thomas, who was doing nothing whatsoever to encourage the infant, but merely standing on duty nearby, his expression aloof as ever. And quite how little Sybbie Branson at the tender age of two instinctively knew he was both her guardian and protector when he only ever watched her from afar was a mystery. But know it she most certainly did.

The first time Thomas realised exactly how perceptive Miss Sybbie was had been the day he was busy overseeing a couple of boys unload luggage after Lady Edith and Lady Crawley's recent trip to London. He was vaguely aware that in the distance Nurse Mottram was out walking with both Master George and Miss Sybbie, and he frowned at the conspicuous absence of Sybbie's nanny, Ruth Poole, making a mental note to check all was well with the children. Suddenly, out of he corner of his eye, he saw Miss Sybbie, running faster than she had yet learned how, as she usually did, take a tumble. She was up and on her feet almost as soon as she fell and obviously unhurt, but, oh! there was her great friend Thomas!

Ignoring Nurse Mottram's instructions to wait, the two-year-old toddled quickly as her plump little legs would allow towards him, palm raised like a little American Indian.

"Sore hand," she announced, proudly displaying the hand she had put out to save herself, which, apart from a tiny grass stain, had not so much as a scratch upon it.

"I am very sorry to hear that, Miss Sybbie," Thomas replied gravely, amusedly fighting back the urge to raise his palm too and with a play on words respond _"How?"_ as characters in the wonderful new world of talking picture Westerns were apt to do. But, the joke going over Sybbie's head aside, as an under-butler and especially with an audience of two very young staff he had to remain professional. "Nurse will be with you instantly."

Indeed, Master George's nursemaid, Margaret Mottram, was at that very moment hastening after the tiny accident victim as best as circumstances would allow - circumstances in this case being one Master George Crawley, who was strolling leisurely as a tourist keen to take in the sights, including what must have been a particularly interesting blade of grass, for he had reached a dead halt to stare at it. As the youngster was barely ten months old. new to the whole business of walking and swaying alarmingly, poor Nurse Mottram needed to keep a very firm grip on his hand while her other hand tightly gripped the perambulator, Lady Mary's pride and joy almost as much as Master George was, which was in danger of rolling together with the youngest Crawley down the grassy slope and into the ornamental pond.

Sybbie spared her not so much as a fleeting glance. She looked briefly at her palm, as if to check it was still there, then presented it again to Thomas, together with a conspiratorial smile, perfectly aware there was no injury, but keen to spend time with her favourite person.

"Sore hand," she repeated, watching him with the same bright eyes as her mother.

Unfortunately for Sybbie, and much as both would liked it to have been so, an under-butler's duties was not childminding. As it was, a relieved cry of _"Thank goodness you're back! Did you fix it?"_ from Nurse Mottram alerted them to the return of Nurse Poole, red-faced and flustered, smoothing down the torn skirts she'd hastily mended with pins to prevent her bloomers from being on display to the whole of Downton. Thus, with a sigh, loud and heartfelt from Sybbie, and inwardly from Thomas, were they reluctantly parted.

Thomas turned to see the two boys unloading the car grinning at him and immediately became his usual surly self. "If the pair of you have got time to stand there staring, then I'm obviously not got giving you enough work," he snapped. "I guarantee I've plenty more for you."

Nor was Sybbie to be defeated so easily, Nurse Poole may have thwarted her attempts to reach her friend this time, but there would be other times. Just a week or two later, in fact.

Thomas did not sleep well the night before and, feeling somewhat rundown, had made a rare and uncharacteristic error in his work. Trivial though the matter was, Mr Carson was a perfectionist and hauled him over the coals the first chance he got, which happened to be in the unoccupied smaller dining room that was used by the children and their nurses. At least, both thought it was unoccupied. Until Thomas saw her.

Unnoticed by Charles Carson, a small figure sat under the table, looking pleased with herself. But she looked absolutely delighted and pressed a shushing finger to her lips when she realised Thomas had seen her.

Hide and seek was Miss Sybbie's latest game of choice. He had been keeping an eye on her often enough to know. The little girl loved nothing more than to find what she fondly imagined to be an ideal hiding place and Nurse Poole would give her five minutes or so before "discovering" her. The nursemaid could afford to wait. Sybbie's hiding places were inevitably in full view, Sybbie being convinced that covering her face with her hands so that she couldn't see meant nobody else could see her either.

But this time Sybbie was too curious about the unexpected visitors to remember to cover her face. And, despite decades of practice in concealing his emotions, Thomas was forced to choke back a laugh when the toddler, annoyed that her favourite was being scolded, scowled up at Carson and stuck out her tongue.

"Is anything the matter, Mr Barrow?" the staid butler demanded pointedly.

"No, Mr Carson. Just a tickle in my throat."

The little minx apparently found the idea of a tickle in a throat puzzling enough to check if a tickle lodged in her own, for now, mouth wide open like a baby bird and eyes wide, she was somewhat worriedly clutching her neck. Fortunately, Thomas's years of training came to his aid this time. He could chuckle all he wished back in his room later. (And so he did, so he did, although it did have Wilfred, the new hall boy, green enough and wet behind the ears enough to rush in where angels feared to tread, not yet aware of Thomas Barrow's renowned sarcasm, knocking on his door to politely ask, _"Are you quite well, Mr Barrow? Shall I fetch help?"_ and to sincerely wish he hadn't.)

"Hmmm." Charles Carson regarded the under-butler suspiciously as he took a step backwards - and almost toppled over Sybbie, just in the act of exiting her crawl space, who squealed and darted out of harm's way in the nick of time.

"Good Heavens, whatever is that child doing here?!" Carson's question was answered immediately as at that very moment Ruth Poole appeared in the doorway to re-claim her charge and became the second person within minutes to feel the lash of his tongue.

His friendship with the children lightened Thomas's mood and the servants joked with each other in amused astonishment that Mr Barrow must be suffering from some strange malady, for he was in danger of being almost civil these days. It didn't last. Because neither did his friendship with Miss Sybbie.

Tom Branson decided to start a new life in America and within weeks he and his little daughter were gone. For all the usual activity that characterised Downton Abbey, the grand dinners, the wealthy guests, the never-ending frantic bustle from Downstairs to ensure everything ran smoothly Upstairs, the huge house was empty without her. The only one who had any time for Thomas Barrow now was Master George. But George was still just a tot, still learning to walk, his vocabulary limited to a handful of baby words. Cry as he might for Thomas's arms, Upstairs and Downstairs alike simply thought it funny and quaint and never once thought to grant the request the child was far too young to articulate.

The days were dark without Sybbie Branson to brighten them. Sometimes when he retired for the night, Thomas would sit alone in his room, staring at books he never read though he turned every page, listening to the rain rattling dismally down, only memories left now of those he'd loved. Paul. With his crooked front teeth and merry blue eyes, his first love his first sweet kiss, his first heartbreak when Death stole him too young. Kate. Sister, defender, guardian, always there for Thomas, trying so hard to understand although she never could. Ben. The little brother he played football with, quarrelled with, laughed with, hated and loved. Reggie. With his soft country accent and shyness, his wide brown eyes and penchant for deep conversations about Heaven and Earth even in the middle of No Man's Land. Lady Sybil. Gentle yet brave, strong yet vulnerable, never prejudiced, never judging, believing in everyone, even Thomas. Jimmy. Golden hair and ready wit, smoking buddy, drinking partner, talked too much and with an eye for the lasses too much to ever quite finish a ciggie or pint, best mates until he left Downton and then he heard from him no more. Little Miss Sybbie. Mischief maker extraordinaire, jumping from interest to interest, from game to game, loveable and lively and loud, leaving a trail of mayhem and echoing silence in her wake. Edward. Soldier, huntsman, farmer, raconteur, dreamer, and every dream dashed in a moment when the mustard gas scorched his eyes and scorched his soul.

He still missed Edward Courtenay greatly. Often he re-lived their final moments, looking for the clues he missed that Teddy would leave him too, their last conversations poked and prodded in his mind, the same words churned over and over and over. Could he have done something, said something differently? He'd only brushed away his lover's fears about his blindness being a burden in their future together, told him he could never be a burden, thought his glib answers sufficient to reassure. Should he have looked deeper, asked further, instead of laughing away his sweetheart's concern as if it were no more than a whisper on the breeze? He knew he was depressed, he and Lady Sybil had warned Dr Clarkson, but Thomas never truly believed...Not until the morning they found him, bright red blood pouring from his wrists but still too late, the razor blade he'd stolen from a shaving tray streaked with blood and shining in the bright sunlight.

He grew angrier and more bitter every day, yearning to take his revenge on a world where others could know happiness while his could never be.

His chance came one wild March morning when leaves were torn and scattered from the trees and rain clouds swept furiously across the sky.

"Mr Barrow." Charles Carson, who was distributing the post, arched an eyebrow as he handed a letter to Thomas. Unlike the other servants, who heard regularly from family and friends, it was rare indeed for the under-butler to receive any correspondence other than postcard notifications or invoices from the stores he frequented. Never, that he could recall, anything that wasn't official looking or emblazoned with a company's self-important adverts.

"Thank you, Mr Carson." Thomas maintained his professional composure although he was baffled. The small, neat handwriting was vaguely familiar but he couldn't quite place it until he ripped open the envelope and suddenly the memory struck him. Kate had had a habit of keeping things for sentimental reasons. A dress brooch that belonged to their Mam. A lock of Ben's baby hair. Pressed flower petals. A picture Thomas scribbled when he was four years old. Her first prayer book. The stub of a pencil Fred Lacey, her unrequited love, had used.

Instructions for a complicated sewing pattern written by someone who left his sister years ago and just when Kate needed a friend more than ever before. And he had promised himself he would never forgive Phyllis Baxter…


	14. Chapter 14

Many thanks to **HamiltonAsparagus** for your very thoughtful review

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*****chapter 14*****

The neat handwriting was exactly how Thomas remembered it when Kate straightened the paper and set it down on the table next to her to work by gas-light, for his sister was never idle and kept piles of material and balls of wool in a large cardboard box she would delve into most evenings. He never asked what she was making; Kate worked so rapidly he would know soon enough.

But one day he picked up the page obviously torn from Jackson's grocery register, with the indents of a previous page totting up the price of potatoes, onions, butter and tea. It had not been used for groceries in this instance, however, it had been used to write some helpful sewing instructions which Kate was referring to. Just below the shopping list there was, too, an indent bearing the cryptic message _potatoes Fri __Mrs __Sm. _Unable to make out the rest, he idly speculated as to who the customer could be who called to collect potatoes one Friday. After all, there were several candidates in the neighbourhood - Mrs Smedley, the Mrs Smith with the crippled husband and the mangy cat, the Mrs Smith who took in washing and had eight kids, Mrs Small, Mrs Smethurst, Mrs Smullen...Kate giggled and shook her head at his every suggestion.

It was none of them, she admitted at last. Her friend Phyllis had also been writing out a recipe for a new dish that included potatoes and fried mushrooms! Thomas snatched up the page in disbelief, but, sure enough, when he squinted at the paper once more he could just about make out the two words. He had studied that writing so hard small wonder he remembered it so well. But what did Phyllis Baxter want with him after all these years?

_Dear Mr Barrow, How strange it is to address you thus when I have always known you as Thomas, and even Tom or Tommy! But you are no longer a boy and I can no longer take such a liberty._

_First, I must tell you I intend to write from the heart. You are the only friend I can turn to now and I wish you to know everything, which I fear will make this epistle rather lengthy. Thus I will begin._

_You will be very surprised to hear from me after all this time and for me to be so very late in offering my sincere condolences for your losses. I cannot begin to imagine how distressing a time it must have been for you and how sorry I am I was not there to at least give some small comfort in my friendship. I learned of the sad and untimely deaths of Kate, Ben and Paul some months afterwards, but though I tried and tried to find you over the years my search proved futile until a few years previously. I could not bring myself to write then, however. I hope you may better understand my reasons when you come to learn my history. _

_I fled Manchester in shame. The man I loved and was to marry had duped me. I discovered that he was already married, and the father of four children, the eldest barely eight years old, the youngest just a babe in arms. I was so shocked I hardly knew where I was and what I was about. Too embarrassed to face anyone, even Kate, I made up my mind I would go as far away as possible where none would know me. No sooner had I thought of the plan than I executed it. I paid my rent until the end of the week and purchased a train ticket – my wits scattered, I simply asked for the very next train out of the station and, upon arrival, boarded yet another train in the same manner. Finally, as it was growing dark and I tired, I asked a coachman if he would be kind enough to take me to the nearest lodgings. The fellow suggested a couple of hotels and upon hearing I had insufficient funds named instead some respectable ladies boarding houses and their prices. I was dismayed to realise had not the money for even those. After learning how much I could afford, he proposed then, albeit reluctantly, a boarding house at the edge of the town._

"_It is not somewhere I would normally take a genteel lady such as yourself," he cautioned. "But I daresay if you ensure your door is kept locked one night may be bearable until your relatives are able to send funds." (He had got it into his head that I had been the victim of theft and I am ashamed to say I allowed this delusion rather than admit I had no relatives to rescue me from my predicament.) I realise you must find my penury strange when you knew me to be careful and saving hard and how I could sometimes earn a handsome sum if I secured more intricate sewing work, the reason I was so keen for Kate to learn this skill too. Well, my money was gone, Mr Barrow. All of it. _

_I loved and trusted Ralph so much that even now it hurts and shames me to write of it. I had been giving what I earned from my dressmaking and Jackson's grocers to my intended, believing it was being regularly paid it into the bank toward our future together. There was no bank account. The cash I gave him was long spent. I will not dwell on how and where, my heart still aches when I think how much I was taken in. _

_I fell into an exhausted sleep in the small, damp room I was allocated, listening to a drunken argument, door slamming and random thuds of the other residents, only to be rudely awoken some time before dawn by a furious rattling of the door knob. There was no point in shouting for help; my voice would have been drowned by the noise that punctuated the night. Thankfully, I had taken care to firmly bolt my door and in time the unwelcome caller let me be. _

_I lay wide awake then, and with time to think the precariousness of my situation struck me like a hammer blow. Whatever was I to do to survive? I had few belongings and very little money in my purse. Even a room in this dubious place was better than sleeping on the streets or on a washing line (yes, they really do exist, remember how once we pondered upon it? But during my journey I passed a building where through a window I glimpsed momentarily a dozen or more men in uneasy sleep leaning over taut ropes stretched from wall to wall to keep them from falling down, a few of the luckier, presumably those who were able to pay more than the required amount, with benches to rest on). I muttered a prayer to the Almighty Father to guide me and I know you scoff at such matters, Mr Barrow, but it would seem He really was watching over me, for only the very next morning I had an amazing stroke of luck. _

_I thought perhaps I might be able to work in lieu of rent, perhaps cleaning or cooking – I had noticed the previous evening that some tenants were able to procure a meagre evening meal of potatoes, cabbage and mutton and the smell of cabbage still lingered from what I assumed were the kitchens below, as though the very walls were painted with it. My stomach grumbled, reminding me not a morsel had passed my lips since I ate some bread and cheese at the railway station. I know you will find it amusing when I say I could have eaten a feast of cabbage at that moment, recalling my dislike of cabbage and how you used to tease me about it, but hunger makes one less choosy._

_With a mind to negotiating terms, I went to see the caretaker of the lodgings – I use the term loosely, for Mrs Quinn's only task seemed to be to allocate rooms and write due amount in a large ledger, the rents being collected by a fierce-looking man and an equally ferocious,burlier companion, who rough-handled any debtors, throwing them on the street without ceremony. The building was left to fend for itself. _

_No sooner had I knocked on the half open door than Mrs Quinn bade me enter. Being of the opinion I wished to secure a second night, she was already turning a new page in the ledger and dipping a pen in the inkwell while launching into a dozen different topics, from the weekend's thunderstorm, to how her late mother suffered greatly from arthritis in wet weather, to how convenient it was to have a store nearby that sold mothballs, and how she had been in said store Tuesday last and saw an acquaintance pass by with a man who was definitely not her husband! _

_She reminded me not a little of Dr Swales' charwoman, not so much in looks - although she did have wiry grey hair pulled back in a severe bun! - but in the way she loved to gossip. I have no doubt you will clearly recollect Miss Lily Walker, and how you and Paul called her Miss Silly Talker to her face! Though Kate sternly admonished you, we often secretly laughed about it afterwards, it was so wicked and yet so apt. But I digress._

_Mrs Quinn chanced to glance at the curtains of her own room and sighed that they were greatly in need of mending before they fell down altogether. Of course I offered my services as a needlewoman at once and thus began a friendship of sorts. Knowing her love of gossip, I dared not confide in her the real reason for my solitary journey. "A failed relationship" was the only information she could elicit and try as Beryl might – we became on first name terms in time – I allowed her no more. _

_I was correct in my assumption about the kitchens. There was indeed a kitchen area below stairs where one could purchase a plain hot meal by evening, but I was shocked at the lack of cleanliness and wondered no one had yet suffered food poisoning – or, I thought, perhaps they had but nobody dared complain for fear of losing their cheap lodgings. My first visit into its depths, Mrs Meadows, was snoring drunkenly beside a half-finished bottle of gin, while Annie, a pleasant, simple-minded young girl, familiar with her sometimes violent outbursts (it was by no means unusual for Cook when inebriated to throw plates and pans) and not bold enough to act without instructions patiently sat and waited for her to wake. _

_I volunteered my help and Annie and I gave the kitchen a thorough clean, scrubbing every inch, laying mouse-traps, opening windows, wiping every dish until it shone. Mrs Meadows slept through it all. You will be amused to hear that I soon gave two particularly large spiders free reign, swallowing my apprehension in my desperation to rid the kitchen of flies; we also procured a stray cat that Annie, dear girl, became very much attached to and who was quickly at home with his regular feast of mice and scraps of food so the arrangement was beneficial to all parties. Even Mrs Meadows, when she was sober, had a place in her heart for Hector. Cleaning, cooking and mending did not pay much, for nobody in that large house with its dozen rooms and smells of damp and mould, cabbage and beer, had money to spare – not surprisingly, the few who found work moved on somewhere better as soon as they did - but it kept a roof over my head and food in my belly, and I began to recover a little from my betrayal. _

_I had written three times to Kate but __my__ letters were returned to the post office unopened. I imagined __she was__ angry and I understood her anger, I had hurt her deeply. __B__ut when I wrote next to your father and that, too, was returned with the same __lines obliterating the address and advising the letter's return, I __first entertained the idea, far-fetched though it seemed, for __its signage proclaimed it to have__ stood on its corner __with its large brown clock ticking like a heartbeat for __over a__ hundred years, __t__hat the clockmakers' shop may have relocated. Coward that I __am__, I still could not bring myself to visit __and face my humiliation__. __And t__hen I remembered Helen Latham. I knew __how close you and her son had been and how fond __your father was __of her. __ A__t__ long last __my endeavours proved fruitful and a letter arrived in next afternoon's post. But its contents shocked and saddened me. _

_Mrs Latham wrote of the terrible outbreak of diphtheria and of the deaths of Kate, Ben and Paul. Mr Barrow, no words I say can ever take away the pain you must have suffered and my sympathy so many years too late is scant consolation. My heart aches when I think of how alone you, little more than a child, would have been in your grief, for your father never understood nor was kind to you. I wished so much I could turn back time and been brave enough to stand fast in the face of my humiliation. and I wept so often and prayed so hard that wherever you were you might know happiness. _

_In answer to my question, Mrs Latham said curtly, the clockmakers had indeed moved elsewhere, to another city, she believed, she had no idea where and no interest in trying to find out. She told me, too, that you called on her to say you were leaving and asked for a keepsake of her son's. She made it clear she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with you or to hear from me again and "if I should ever have the misfortune to find you" to inform you "she burnt the letters". _

_I knew at once what that must mean and remembering your love for Paul my aching heart finally broke in two. Distraught to hear of the deaths and of how cruelly you were treated, I felt a walk might calm mes, and reasoning Cook would not be preparing the evening meal for another hour or so, l donned coat and hat and set off at a brisk pace. If only I had stopped to think I would never have done so, for it was a decision I will always regret. _

_I was gone the full hour and returned in a slightly calmer frame of mind, but before I even reached the street where my lodging house stood, a putrid smell of burning pervaded my nostrils and a thick pall of black smoke hung ominously in the air. Curious to know what had happened, I followed others to the source._

_To my horror, it was my own lodging house that was alight! _

The shrill sound of the hourly bell from the servants' hall combined with the harsh ringing of his alarm clock protesting at the passage of time alerted the under-butler to the fact he was due on duty. The latter reminder was unnecessary. It was a habit from his youth when he and Kate were tasked with rising early to attend their chores, a cheap mass produced clock bearing its manufacturer's stamp, and which he'd discovered in a neighbour's midden. He had repaired it himself although only Kate and Paul ever knew or even knew of its existence. William Barrow had no interest in teaching his eldest son the trade and he and Ben were inevitably at daggers drawn over something or other.

The clock was one of several items he packed the day after Kate's funeral when on an impulse he left the clockmakers forever, but it was the only impractical one. He never quite knew why he took it. Perhaps pride at his work, perhaps the soothing ticking of the shop's many timepieces he recollected from early childhood before his mother died and everything changed, perhaps, and this puzzled him, it was for companionship.

Thomas tucked the letter away in a drawer, to read the rest of its contents later, and as always, checked his appearance in the mirror before leaving. He smirked at his reflection. Phyllis Baxter, whom he had sworn never to forgive for deserting Kate when Kate most needed her, was opening her heart to her friend's brother, believing in him, trusting him. What other secrets might she tell? The March wind screamed through the Downton Abbey trees like a banshee and rain lashed the windows as if to share his fury. Someone would pay for his loneliness and who better than the person he blamed most for Kate's death?


	15. Chapter 15

Thank you to **HamiltonAsparagus **for your lovely review

**A/N: **This story is AU

*****chapter 15*****

"Early night, Mr Barrow?" Anna asked pleasantly as she donned coat and hat and deliberately ignored her husband's meaningful frown at the question. Mr Bates had never liked the arrogant under-butler, but Anna refused to give up on anyone, believing that a friendly manner broke down barriers and reciprocated a friendly response. Even from Thomas Barrow. Well, eventually.

Thomas looked down his nose at the lady's maid. It wasn't difficult. She was all of five foot two, perhaps three on her tiptoes, while he towered above and had got sneering down to a fine art.

"And may I ask what business is that of yours, Mrs Bates?"

John Bates stopped flicking through the pages of the book he was browsing whilst waiting for his wife. The Crawleys were quite happy for staff to borrow books from their extensive library, and happening to see a book his wife had once mentioned as being a great favourite in her childhood, he couldn't resist surprising her. It was worth it to see Anna's delighted expression even if the Earl of Grantham did raise his eyebrows at his choice.

"Little Women." Robert Crawley observed, biting back a laugh. "I'm sure you'll enjoy reading all about the March girls and their romances, Bates. I remember Mary, Edith and Sybil loved to read it over and over when they were very young."

"It's for Mrs Bates, M'lord."

"Hmmm." Robert knew that perfectly well. But it always amused him that in all the years he'd known his friend John Bates could keep a stiff upper lip in even the most trying of circumstances. Only Thomas Barrow could surpass him in not displaying any emotion. The difference being, Bates gave away his mirth with his eyes. Barrow was a closed book.

An appropriate simile at this moment, he thought, as he shut again the Louisa M Alcott classic. He hadn't opened it to tease Bates. He'd opened it because he knew the exact page and the exact place where his late daughter Sybil, aged eight, had signed a picture she'd sketched of Jo March. He had no qualms about lending his valet something so preciously sentimental. He knew the Bates's would take exceptional care of it.

Although he didn't envy being the recipient of one of Barrow's acid comments if he discovered his chosen reading material, as he remarked.

"Oh, I think I can handle Mr Barrow's idiosyncrasies, M'lord." John Bates smiled his slow smile that Anna told him never failed to set her heart a-fluttering. Despite now holding the respectable position of under-butler Barrow was still angry that years ago Bates was promoted to Lord Grantham's valet over him and took every opportunity to undermine the crippled older man, but to his fury, his jibes didn't trouble him in the slightest.

As it happened, Thomas Barrow had other things on his mind that evening. He wanted to read again Phyllis Baxter's unexpected and lengthy letter and he was damned if he was going to read it in the kitchen area where anyone could poke their nose in. Normally, he had more time and patience for Anna, but Long John Silver with his superior attitude always unsettled him. Like now, as he looked over the top of his glasses to regard the under-butler with contempt. So it was Anna who had borne the brunt of his sharp tongue although it was her husband who provoked it.

"Don't waste your breath, Mrs Bates." The older man advised. "I believe dumbwaiters are not renowned for their powers of conversation."

He was rewarded with a most unBarrowlike slam of the door followed by the under-butler's clipped footsteps. "My, my, touched a nerve." he added, with satisfaction.

His wife was unamused, however. "That was cruel, Mr Bates," she chided. "Mr Barrow is how he is because he's unhappy and he's usually quite kind to me. Promise me you'll apologise?"

John Bates sighed. But he would do anything for Anna. Anything. Climb mountains. Catch moonbeams. Walk barefoot over broken glass. Read to her from what seemed to be a mawkish story and definitely not to his taste – unfortunately, he had randomly opened the book at Beth March's death – the way he read to her every evening after supper as she sat by the fire in their cosy cottage, feet raised on a footstool as Dr Clarkson advised, hand rested on her swollen stomach.

It was a happy marriage. Too happy, he worried at times. He and his late wife Vera had begun married life full of hopes and dreams too although it had also begun on a lie when she told him she was pregnant. Anna seemed incapable of lying. One of the thousand and one reasons he loved and would do anything for Anna. Even apologise to Thomas Barrow.

"I promise," he said.

"Thank you, John."

And he smiled his slow smile that set her heart a-fluttering so she stole a kiss.

*****.

Damn Long John Silver and his self-righteousness. Thomas's good mood - if Mr Barrow could ever be accused of making the acquaintance of good moods since little Miss Sybbie's departure to America – evaporated. He sorely missed the uncomplicated company of the children and it had been denied him even more so since Margaret Mottram's marriage and the new Nanny's strong belief friendships between servants and the Crawley children should be actively discouraged. Hence, her determination to break up the fledgling friendship between the under-butler and little Master George.

He knew he would ensure Sheila O'Hara's dismissal eventually, but his duties swallowed up almost all of his time and the opportunity not yet presented itself. She was not particularly lax in looking after Master George, but being young and exceptionally pretty she was often too busy enjoying flirting and turning heads to pay the little boy any extra attention. And he'd had such a miserable childhood himself that he would always look out for children.

Which was why Marigold concerned him. Lady Edith sometimes brought the pale, thin little girl with the mass of light brown curls to visit Downton Abbey. She supposedly belonged to a family of cottagers who lived on the estate, but some of the staff inclined to gossip speculated that Lady Edith may have a very good reason for her interest. Personally, Thomas couldn't care less if Lady Edith had given birth outside of wedlock or not. His only concern was for the child. He'd noticed Marigold's big scared eyes when she walked up the steps, tightly clutching Lady Edith's hand. She was well aware she was a talking point among the servants while the servants were totally unaware that she knew. Kids were far more perceptive than adults gave them credit for.

He'd banned Downstairs from spreading _"malicious rumours"_ about Marigold's background although he knew certain die-hard chin-waggers would ignore the order. It was one of the few times he and Bates were in total agreement. He'd overheard *Steadfast Tin Soldier quash a couple of conversations before the more dedicated rumour-mongers got into their stride. Not because of Thomas's instruction, no, even though the title of under-butler carried more weight than valet, Bates always managed to convey that smug air of being the better man. Thomas acted because he worried about Marigold. Bates acted because he worried about Marigold, Lady Edith, the Crawley family, the cottager family, the downstairs staff, and the whole damn bloody world. Nobody was that perfect, but John Bates had to be. He could tolerate Anna – no, more than tolerate, she had always been friendly to Thomas, never scorned his homosexuality; it was impossible _not_ to like Anna. But that bloody self-righteous cripple…! Just seeing him there, looking holier than thou and flicking importantly through some book – probably the Goddamn Bible! – had been enough to get his back up and make him snap at Anna.

Thomas blew out a breath of air. He was exhausted. If he hadn't been wearing his butler uniform, he might well have broken the habit of a lifetime of being meticulous about his appearance and thrown himself on his bed. Having full charge while Charles and Elsie Carson were away for the week – Lady Crawley had insisted that they enjoy a break in a seaside holiday home she owned; she felt they deserved it for all their service and loyalty over the years - was taking a toll as heavy as a midnight bell.

They were back the day after tomorrow, thank God. Not that he'd ever admit it to Carson, but being butler had been a thousand times more taxing than being under-butler. He knew the work inside out, ran Downton Abbey like a well-oiled machine and enjoyed issuing orders...People were another matter altogether.

Why the hell couldn't they just do what he said right away without feeling the need to point out potential problems or being resentful or becoming emotional? Ida the scullery maid burst into tears when he'd told her to re-do the kitchen floor, but cleaner this time, then Mrs Patmore interfered to insist the kitchen was her domain and nobody else's, which led to whispers of agreement and rebellion from Alma, Jane and Winnie, the three kitchen maids on duty.

Anna had hinted speaking more kindly might create better relations with the staff, but he had no intention of pandering to their whims. If he were completely honest with himself, he did feel a tad guilty for criticising Ida's work, she was only thirteen, after all, little more than a kid, but he hadn't raised his voice and simply wanted everything to be perfect under his watch. And the more others opposed him, the more determined he was to be as awkward as possible. Mrs Patmore and every kitchen maid who'd been present, except young Ida, could look forward to a very tough and unpleasant time on Mr Barrow's last day in charge.

The cripple was another who would feel his wrath, but in his case it would be a much greater revenge than one bad day. In the mean time. there was Miss Baxter…

He'd read the letter so many times in the weeks since receiving it, he could almost recite it _ad verbatim_. Smiling to himself, he skimmed over its contents yet again, randomly picking out paragraphs here and there.

_...As it was Annie's day off, Mrs Meadows was alone cooking dinner. Mercifully, although some lodgers suffered from the effects of smoke inhalation, there was only one death. Mrs Meadows had fallen into a drunken sleep while a pan was burning on the stove…_

_...__dinner would be. Annie__ had left early that morning to spend the day with Joe Wilson. I don't think I mentioned she had a beau? Joe had not had much schooling __and could __barely read or write but they had known each other since children and he was a kind, honest__ and hard-working_ _man__, not clever with his books, but clever with hammer and nails and earned a living making furniture. I __knew__ he would care well for Annie and they would... _

_...thus Mrs Quinn had become a friend of sorts, albeit never a close and trusted one, and after her death following the short illness, I was fortunate enough to secure work as laundrywoman in a large hotel. I often enquired after the health of a certain guest I became fond of, who had travelled from Scotland to see a favourite physician from her girlhood, and one day she enquired if I would be willing to accompany her as a ladies companion. I was in Scotland for several years. My kindly elderly mistress kept a small staff and as always I kept myself to myself. But when she passed away, I... _

_...to search for you in vain. Strangely, it never occurred to me that you may have chosen a similar path to mine! Knowing how bright you were, I assumed you to have perhaps taken up employment with a bank or perhaps now worked as a newspaperman or earned enough to open your own business. When the Great War came, I scanned the press reports every day, in dread that like so many young men you had perished. Sometimes on my days off I would travel to places nearby where..._

It was, however, the last two pages that interested him most.

_...and how I had sworn never to love again, but my heart was not mine to own any more. I knew I would do as Mr Coyle asked and carry out the theft because I could not bear to see him unhappy. It shames me to say that I stole from my employer Mrs Benton, who had trusted me implicitly and never borne me any ill will, several items of jewellery, two diamond bracelets, a pearl necklace with a ruby clasp, four rings, an antique brooch with…_

He almost laughed out loud at Miss Baxter's naivety. Of course Peter Coyle did a moonlight flit. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that he would. Her remarks on how he would flatter her, make her feel special, talk about marriage. It may have come as a surprise to Phyllis Baxter, but it was no surprise to Thomas Barrow that immediately after the staged burglary Coyle and the stolen jewellery disappeared. He would have quickly realised what Thomas remembered well about his sister's old friend: her strong Christian values.

Even Kate, for all her regular attendances at church, was human enough to sometimes lose her temper or tell a fib or filch the odd item, a hair ribbon here, a toffee there, even once a whole shilling that she saw a customer drop on his way out of the clockmakers. Not so the saintly Miss Baxter. Always the listener, always keen to help, always seeing the good in everyone – ha! Did she live in the real world? Nobody kept the innocence of kids forever; it was dog eat dog out there. Looking out for everybody else instead of herself made Baxter the perfect victim. Or sucker, as the Yanks so succinctly put it. Even after being coerced into committing the crime, she was still daft enough to take all the blame…

_...no matter how glad I was to be released, those three years in prison could never repay my terrible debt. But now I am free and wish for honest work my criminal record denies me. I have applied for so many positions only to... _

_...and I realise, Mr Barrow, this has been quite the book! But I wanted to be totally honest with you when I am appealing to my only friend for help..._

Well, Miss Baxter was going to be lucky. Or at least, think she was lucky. Millie Powell, who had taken over as ladies maid since Edna O'Brien's departure, was leaving to look after her elderly mother and Lady Grantham urgently needed someone to replace her. Carson had been so relieved when the under-butler announced an old acquaintance of his was seeking the very same position that he actually lost his composure and stumbled over his words, so keen was he to tell Mr Barrow he must write to this acquaintance immediately.

It was most unconventional, but so pressing was the need that Miss Baxter was hired on Mr Barrow's recommendation alone and without having to attend an interview. She would be arriving tomorrow evening to take up her new post the following day.

And Thomas (_"__her __only friend"_) would be waiting. He would keep to himself his knowledge about her criminal record. While it suited him. Something to blackmail her with...

**AN: ** _*__In The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Andersen the toy soldier has only one leg_


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